Calm Like You
by Penelope S Cartwright
Summary: A story of loss, separation, love and everything in between. Huddy all the way.
1. Prelude

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not even the idea for this story. **

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><p><em><strong>And if he was calm like you,<strong>_

_**Locked up inside of your loops then he'd know full well,**_

_**That all he had to say was...**_

_**All he had to say was goodbye.**_

_**-"Calm like You" by The Last Shadow Puppets**_

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><p><em>Princeton Plainsboro Times <em>

_Written by Gillian J. Kaplan _

_It truly saddens us to inform our readers that one of the most distinguished members of our medical community was tragically taken away from us this weekend in the early hours on Sunday, March 20, 2011. Doctor James Evan Wilson, 46, was on his way home from the Princeton Hilton after visiting with a friend, when his silver Volvo was broadsided by a Cadillac Escalade speeding through a red light. The occupants of that vehicle suffered minor injuries and the driver was taken into police custody after the incident. It is unknown whether he was intoxicated or not, or even what charges he was arrested on. Princeton Police were on the scene minutes after the accident, but Dr. Wilson was declared dead upon impact. _

_Dr. Wilson had been Princeton-Plainsboro's star Head of Oncology for more than fifteen years. He hailed from Trenton, New Jersey, where he attended Princeton University for his undergrad. He was accepted into and eventually graduated from McGill University in Quebec, Canada, having received his doctorate in medicine with a specialty in oncology. _

_Dr. Wilson practiced medicine throughout the United States, starting his career at St. Mark's Hospital in Maryland and eventually moving to Princeton-Plainsboro after accepting the position of Head of Oncology offered to him by Doctor Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine. He revolutionized several ways of finding the diagnosis to extremely rare cancers early and wrote extensively on 'early alerts and warnings' in symptoms of these cancers. _

_A teary eyed Dr. Cuddy met with reporters Sunday evening outside the hospital where she gave this statement: _

"_Princeton-Plainsboro has lost one of its greatest and most beloved doctors. It is a horrible tragedy. I honestly can say I can't imagine the hospital without his warm smile lighting the hallways of this learned institution any longer. It pains the staff, every person who has ever worked with Dr. Wilson, and myself, greatly. He will be truly missed." _

_Dr. Wilson's best friend, Doctor Gregory House, the [infamously] known worldwide diagnostician, was unable to be found for comment. Dr. Wilson was survived by only his brother Daniel Wilson. _

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><p><strong>AN: New Story! Please review and let me know what you think. It will be Huddy eventually so be patient, dear readers, and hang on for the ride. I have to thank [<em>blame<em>] Iane_Casey for emailing me [_harassing me, more like_] the idea to this story. She thought of the premise and wanted it done so here you go, dear! I also have to thank Akemi1582 for being an awesome beta! Thanks, love! For those of you waiting for an LTM update, I will post one soon! I promise! I just got a new job so that has been eating up all my time.**


	2. Ch 1 Too Steep

_**Summertime made promises it knew it couldn't keep.**_

_**The fairytale was climbing up a mountain far too steep.**_

_**Colour in the pictures with your royal hands.**_

_**Now I am craving heart-break while you're making your demands.**_

_**-"Calm Like You" by The Last Shadow Puppets**_

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><p><em>One…<em>

Black was the color of the moment. It shined in the light every time the silk fabric moved next to him. The golden beam of light held his eyes for a moment. He stared at the swirl of dust particles, watching as they spun in topsy-turvy directions, falling all the time but never quite reaching the ground. He wondered how that would feel, the endless drop, the swirl of the gentle air around him… and then nothing. Just a figment, one of thousands, caught in that ever more gruesome looking light. Hell would be like that. Always trying but never quite succeeding. The madness that would follow would completely destroy him. He took in a breath.

Vanilla. It stung his sensitive nose. Why did women always choose vanilla when picking a 'neutral' scent? It was too sweet. It was too innocent for the woman lying next to him. He imagined a spicier scent, something that made his blood run hot and his mouth water. A second passed. He was left with only his imagination. That scent would never cling to his clothes again; would never mingle with his own, through close contact or shared sweat.

No. No rest for the wicked. Even from women of love's past.

_Two…_

He breathed out, making himself feel the deflation of his lungs. His skin felt loose and clammy. The sheets under him, Egyptian, and with a thread count he couldn't bring himself to remember, were tangled in his legs. The coolness of them felt like heaven to his heated body. The temperature was a warning sign he choose to ignore. Avoidance was the best policy. His skin was getting sensitive though. He could feel the sweat along his back, under his arms, on the back of his knees and in between his toes. The hair on his arms stood at attention. Goose bumps climbed from the back of his hand to his shoulders. His hearing was playing tricks on him.

He heard the nameless woman groan at the imaginary noise. No one in their right mind would be at his door. Except another girl from the _service_. But he had one, thanks. He heard the rustle of coarse fabric, a blouse being buttoned haphazardly. He titled his head toward her. His sight was starting to blur slightly. A flash of olive colored skin and another of black satin, and he saw the tall figure in front of him get unsteadily to her feet. Her artificial black hair swung from side to side as she walked to the door.

Why would she do that? There was no one there. Anyone who would have knocked had already been there and left. His eyes wandered to the ceiling. He didn't need to see the strange interloper at the door.

_Three… _

It was too quiet. The silence was deafening. He shifted in the bed. The sheets were damp and sticky. He breathed in. His skin crawled and he stiffened.

A growl issued from outside the bedroom. He was hallucinating. That voice couldn't be here. That voice was thirty miles away, behind a desk, pushing papers and exercising her power over all her loyal, cowering subjects. The vicodin was already wrecking havoc on his mind. He felt only an ounce of fear. This time he had nothing to lose. This time he didn't have a chance to get what he wanted… what he needed. He embraced the temporary insanity and let himself close his eyes. If _she_ was going to be here, it would be on his terms.

He heard a high, unfamiliar voice issue out a complaint about only doing her job. God, did he really sleep with that voice? Again, he heard a thinly veiled threat and another growl.

"Get. Out."

Her voice sounded off he realized through his haze. It sounded deeper, maybe hoarse. His subconscious would not change the tone and timber of her voice. What for? Was it angling for a teary reunion, full of begging and kneeling and exclamations of self-fault and forgiveness? What utter bullshit. He wasn't as fucked up to dream a scenario as that. A happy reunion indeed. Which only left one plausible explanation.

She was really in the hotel room.

_Four… _

Now _that_ was a mystery to solve. She was too proud to come back and ask him for a second chance. Not this soon anyway. She would have waited a month, fighting with herself and trying to talk herself into seeing she made the right decision. She would be miserable the entire time. He heard the high pitch voice whine again. This time he made it out to be about money. He had paid her already. He smirked as the other voice cited hooker protocol [you always get the money beforehand] and promptly threw the woman out.

"Bitch!" was shouted from the hallway and he heard the door slam shut. He winced. The vibrations seemed to flow through his head, straight to his drug and alcohol-hung over brain, shaking it violently. The room lurched. He was feverish. The sheets were almost soaked through.

He was alone now. He couldn't hear anything. The hooker had just left. She had noisily gotten out of bed, threw her clothes on, and left, not caring if the door slammed shut, waking him from a drug-induced dream. That was it.

Until he smelled her perfume.

The fragrance was made up of lemon, citron, jasmine, heliotrope, with a light hint of sandalwood, giving the perfume a mixture of floral and spice. It complimented her natural scent perfectly. That was why he had bought the damned, expensive thing in the first place. He tried to open his eyes. They were heavy and refused to listen to him. He didn't really want to look anyway. He didn't want to see her. He didn't want to see the look she must be giving him, at how he felt he looked.

He felt like shit.

He could envision her eyes roaming over his form, the sheet that was covering his legs and waist, his torso bare. The sheets must be showing the amount of perspiration he was giving off. Maybe she could feel the heat that was wafting off of him in waves. Then he could see her eyes finally resting on the orange bottle on the night stand next to the bed. He didn't want to see her reaction. He couldn't handle that now. He was far from ready to deal with _that_. Wilson proved that to him last night.

"House…" he heard her hesitantly breathe out.

"I'm still alive," he grumbled. His stomach was starting to cramp. He knew if he tried to sit up, he would vomit. He groaned.

"How many of them have you taken?"

She used a pronoun. She didn't even want to acknowledge the vicodin sitting right beside her.

"Now or in total?" he quipped.

_Fi… _

He felt her hand grip his wrist. Her fingers barely circled around it. Her grip tightened as she moved his arm back towards his chest.

"How many, House?"

"Four," he gasped. If he remembered rightly, he counted out four. The pain was starting to radiate from his stomach. His back started to bow and he gingerly turned on his side, getting into a fetal position. He heard her move towards the bathroom. She returned a moment later, with several hurried steps just in time, to place a trash bin next to the bed as he hurled over the side of the bed. His stomach felt like it was trying to escape his body via his throat. The acid burned his throat as he watched 2 half digested pills mixed with bile leave his mouth. His eyes watered as he coughed and sputtered.

"I need to get you to the hospital," he heard her voice say above him.

He rolled onto his back and, with a shaky hand, wiped his mouth with the back of it. He finally opened his eyes. She was wearing a navy colored sweater, dark jeans and nikes. Her hair was tied up and her makeup non-existent. Her eyes were glassy and her face withdrawn. Frankly, she looked almost as horrible as himself.

"I'm not going to the hospital. I'm not dying."

"No, you're _only_ OD'ing," she snarled at him, losing all patience. "You're such an idiot."

He took a deep breath.

"Leave me here then. I don't even know why the hell you're here in the first place. You're done with me. You owe me three hundred dollars since you also kicked out that hooker early."

"I'm here because the rest of your team is chickenshit and can't come here themselves… I—"

Her hesitation was the last straw. He was beyond sick and had no patience to deal with her… guilt, anger, whatever emotion she was trying to hide from him. He knew she was pissed and heartbroken and perplexed about her decisions but they were no longer his problem. She had made that very clear. The audacity she had gathered to barge into his room made him suddenly furious.

"Get the hell out of my room. Why didn't you just sic Wilson on me? Did he tell you being a nabi* for you was a waste of my time?"

He knew when the words flew out of his mouth that he had said something awfully, intensely wrong. Her eyebrows drew together sharply and her eyes narrowed dangerously in a scowl. They shone brighter in the morning light. Her cheeks reddened.

"You don't know?" She whispered. Then to herself, "Of course not… probably hasn't even had the TV on…"

Her lower lip trembled as she let the sentence waiver off. House could see her try to pull herself together. What the hell did he say? He wasn't even close to his usual sarcasm and disdain. He watched as she placed a hand over her mouth, holding back something he now needed to know. She turned her back on him, a sob wracking her whole body.

"Cuddy?" He asked.

He had only seen her this way twice before: the night he first kissed her in twenty years and almost a year later when he shouted from the balcony that he had slept with her. He sat up gingerly on the bed, making sure the sheet was securely around his waist. His head had cleared but his body still ached from the vomiting and sweating. He felt beat up and sore as if he had been slammed into the wall a couple hundred times. He hissed slightly when his stomach cramped. It subsided. Cuddy took another ragged breath, both her hands covering her face.

"Cuddy?" He tried again.

She laughed. It was the type of laugh that caused a person's blood to run cold and fear to crawl through their skin. It was deeply cynical.

She wiped her face with her left hand and looked at him with an expression he didn't recognize. Even at his meanest, most cruel moments, there was always something in her eyes, some deep emotion just stirring within the surface of a silver sea. But there was nothing there now.

Nothing.

No glimpse of hate. No speck of anger.

Null. Void.

People think hate is the worst emotion in the world. It is not. Apathy is. She was apathetic to him now. She really didn't care anymore, especially after what he had said [which he was still trying to figure out in the back of his mind].

It scared the hell out of him.

It was just below the thought of her dying, fear factor wise. She was done. Her eyes glared the truth at him.

"What happened?" The words left his mouth without his permission. He looked down at his hands in his lap, fidgeting with the sheet around his waist as the cramps subsided. He still felt like shit, but the worst of it was over.

"What do you remember?" She countered.

He squinted. "Well, I remember up to scotch number five that I was drinking with Wilson. Then I partied with a couple pledges..."

Abruptly she turned to walk out of the room.

"Wait!" He yelled out. She stopped just inside the door frame.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm saying that has you like this but just spit out what you're here to say." He spoke to her back. She had her right hand holding onto the door frame.

House heard her sigh, brokenly, before she faced him again, leaning on the doorframe as if that were the only thing holding her up. For a brief second, he thought the sorrow now dripping off of her was about him, them, love, and mistakes. Her lips trembled and her cheeks were twitching. She wiped at her eyes again, mascara smearing on the bottom of her eyelashes. He watched as her chest heaved in a deep inhale.

"Something happened this morning… last night. Wilson…"

His chest tightened and it had nothing to do with the drugs and alcohol in his system. He could remember Wilson leaving early this morning after he had _jumped_ into the pool with the Rutgers kids. He could remember seeing Wilson's disbelieving face and look of disappoint worn only when House was at his worst. He remembered seeing the broad shouldered man walk away in quasi-disgust and saunter out of the crowd of co-eds, tie, blazer and trench coat a stark contrast to the t-shirts, shorts, and jeans present. He got to his feet, swaying slightly and looked around for clothes. Out of the corner of his sight, he saw Cuddy look into the living room of the suite, averting her eyes and still trying to compose herself.

"Is he at Princeton-Plainsboro?" House gruffly posed, his voice tight.

He could not imagine his friend laying in one of the stark white hospital beds. It was an unnatural scene. He couldn't picture him in the pale green or blue gowns worn by the patients. He was always in a lab coat or a tie. He was always the one standing next to the bed, not laying in it.

House had found his boxers and jeans and put them on surprisingly fast for a man with a bad center of gravity. He couldn't find his shirt. Vaguely aware Cuddy had not finished telling him everything he searched until he found a crumpled tee sandwiched between the wall and dresser. Still barefoot he walked up to her.

Tears were sliding down her face in rivets. He made to touch her but she shrank from him and moved into the larger room.

"Tell me what happened. My team's working on him?"

He hated himself for the break in his voice.

"Early this morning," Cuddy started again. She sniffled and kept her gaze lowered to the floor. "He was in an accident. Paramedics did everything th—"

The rest of her words were drowned out by the blood rushing to his head. His sight blurred and faded into darkness. He had only one last agonizingly, tormenting thought.

James Wilson was dead.

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><p><strong>Many thanks to Akemi1582 for taking the time out of her super busy schedule and proof-reading this for me! She's such an awesome beta. Thank you, dear readers, for sticking with me, also. I hope the drama isn't too much in this chapter. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter polished off soon. -PSC<strong>


	3. Ch 2 Nothing for Us Here

**AN: In the last chapter I had added an asterisk (*) to the word 'nabi' because my beta thought it would be helpful for people to know what it meant (Hebrew for mouthpiece, Israelites used it to refer to prophets. I find it fitting House would use it to describe Wilson to Cuddy). Of course, I forgot to add the explanation to the bottom so here it is. Now, ****onto**** this chapter. **

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><p><em><strong>She swam out of tonight's phantasm<strong>_

_**Grabbed my hand and made it very clear**_

_**There's absolutely nothing for us here. **_

_**-"Secret Door" by the Arctic Monkeys**_

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><p>He heard someone yawn next to him. Instinctively, he knew he was on the couch, still in his lavish hotel room. The smooth fabric was pressed against his face and the scent of generic fabric softener met his nostrils. His eyes opened slowly and carefully. They had been glued shut with sleep and tears.<p>

Crying. A thump.

He had just heard his best friend was dead; the only person in the world who tolerated him and was willing to put up with his shit on a daily basis. The only person who lo-

He clamped his jaw shut as if that would stop his thoughts from racing in his brain. At least a few hours had passed; the room was dark to his eyes. He realized he had first woken up at twilight and now night had fallen. He twisted around on the couch to survey the room. Cuddy was sitting in the arm chair positioned caddy cornered to the couch. Her feet were tucked up under her, her shoes resting on the floor on their sides. She looked at him with red rimmed eyes and a pallid face. She looked as miserable as he felt.

"How?" He croaked.

She sniffled and unceremoniously wiped her nose with a handkerchief.

"A car accident. An SUV broadsided him... He was... He died on impact."

A numbness crept through his whole body. It wasn't true. Accidents like that didn't happen to goody two shoe oncologists. Knowing how granny-styled Wilson drove, House knew it was the other driver's fault. That fucking, stupid…

"Who was the driver in the other car?" He asked quietly.

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at him. She sat up straighter and spoke.

"He was a kid. Police arrested him and are holding him for manslaughter. This… "

She trailed off. House glanced at her. She looked as if she were trying to hold something back again. The sadness was still present in her grey orbs, but an anger rose up to the forefront.

"This wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for you," she whispered.

He gathered the strength from his sore body and rose up on the couch he had been lying on. He scowled at her fiercely.

"My fault? How'd you figure that one out?"

"You're so damned self-centered," she started, her voice barely rising a few octaves. "Everything's about you. Your pain. Wilson was only out, in the middle of the night, because of you; because you can't deal with your problems in an adult fashion. Oh no! Not the great Gregory House!"

Each word fell from her lips like a sharp barb to his ear. The way she had said them led him to believe she had been carrying them around with her for a long time. The vein on the side of her neck pulsed with each deep breath she took.

"You spread misery everywhere you go because you can't deal with your own. The drugs, the hookers—they're just distractions to get your mind off anything remotely important. Do you even feel anything for _him_ right now?"

"OF COURSE I DO."

The words fled his mouth. He hadn't realized he had gotten to his feet. He took two steps toward her.

"How dare you," he growled. "You come in here and lecture me on feelings? About being self-centered? A woman who says one thing and means another and leaves the man she _supposedly_," he spit the word out viciously, "loved because he failed once? That man was the last person who meant anything to me! He was _my_ best friend. We were the only ones there for each other!"

She had gotten to her feet also. With his stature he was easily a half foot taller than her even barefoot. The height difference had no effect on her.

"This isn't about us!"

"When you stepped through that door, you made it about us! You're the worst liar I've ever met. You could have easily sent Chase, Foreman or even little miss brainiac here to tell me. Fucking hell, you could have had the concierge tell me. Get the hell out of my room."

"Fine! I only came to make sure you didn't die in a pool of your own vomit and to tell you someone has to go through his stuff at his office and in his apartment. His brother doesn't want to do it."

She picked up her shoes, not even bothering to put them on, and exited the room. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, still seething. She stopped outside the doorway.

"And one more thing, his funeral is on Thursday. If you're sober enough to attend."

He marched to the door and slammed it shut. Since she was just in her socks, he couldn't hear whether she had stomped off angrily but he could imagine it and smile sharply at making her just as furious as he was.

_If he was sober __enough__ to attend._

The words hovered over him. He didn't want to attend. In the deepest recesses of his heart, it was the absolute last event he wanted to attend. It never occurred to him that he would outlive Wilson. Not in a million years was this scenario even possible in his mind.

He always envisioned the oncologist at his own funeral, the last and maybe only mourner standing at the edge of his grave, silent and loyal till the bitter end.

He didn't want to go but he would hate himself if he couldn't do this last thing for his best friend. Wilson deserved it and so much more. The man had been through Hell with him, back, and straight to the lowest ring again. He never really said no. Sure, Wilson complained but only for appearances sake. He knew House would be there, complaining uselessly, right next to him.

At least he hoped Wilson knew that.

There were a lot of things he hoped Wilson knew. He shook himself mentally, clearing his thoughts. He had things to do. He could dwell on those things later, after the funeral.

His eyes took in the state of the room. An empty champagne bottle was on its side by the table in the corner of the room. His breakfast tray was still located in the middle of the table. There were condom wrappers strewn on the floor, attesting to his sordid week. It stunk of sweat and cigar smoke. He didn't want to know what he reeked of, what with being high, drunk, hung-over and sick. _What a lovely combo_, he thought. He chuckled darkly, imagining the way Cuddy's face must have looked as she hauled his carcass off the floor and all the way onto the couch.

House-keeping would sanitize the room after he left. They would burn the sheets if they knew what was good for the hotel.

He limped back into the bedroom. He still felt awful but the adrenaline of fighting with Cuddy had given him a nice boost. She believed only what she wanted to. She thought he would fail. Again. He had bent over backwards for that woman, trying his best to be what she wanted and needed and she had bolted when he needed her.

He understood her anger at him. _He really did_. She couldn't understand the total, all encompassing fear he had felt at the thought of her dying. If she had been really dying, he would not have known what to do. He didn't have the strength to look into his beloved's eyes as she withered away in front of him. Cuddy would never know that the past week was _tame_ to what he would have done if she were dying, pill-wise.

One night with his morphine kit would have been sufficient.

Rationally, in reality, he could never bring himself to suicide purposely. An accidental overdose was more plausible and expected. Living in misery was preferable to dying in it.

House grabbed his suitcase from his closet. He needed to get to his apartment. He piled and shoved clothes into the old leather case, withholding a pair of questionably clean jeans, an old tee with briefs and socks.

He was surprised the bathroom was still decent.

He showered, dressed, and walked the walk of shame out of the hotel.

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><p>It was ten past one that morning when he arrived at the hospital. He had gone home, dumped his suitcase into his laundry and took a nap until 12:30. He did not want prying eyes to witness what he was going to do. If anyone were to see him there, he would be inundated with questions and condolences. No, this was better done in solitude and in semi-peace.<p>

The ding of the bell from the elevator broke him out of his thoughts and signaled to him that he was on the fourth floor already. He stepped off and immediately turned to the left. Luckily he noticed the lights in his offices were out. None of his fellows were there, unless they were sleeping in the dark. It would be foolish to check and risk them waking up. As far as he knew, they didn't have a patient so there was no reason they would be there. No, they were all gone, warm, and asleep in their own beds.

He took out his key ring and quickly inserted the stolen one to Wilson's office. He pulled the shades and turned on the light. Everything was as it should be. His files were neatly stacked on the desktop. His inbox held only a few scraps of paper. House looked up to the photos, awards, certificates and diplomas lining the walls. The name James Evan Wilson was in italics and incorporated in proper English or Latin, depending on the degree. His posters took most of the wall space next to and behind his desk. His _dolls_ as House used to call them, sat on shelves, each with a memory attached to them. There were photos of the oncologist with his favorite patients; mostly kids who had beat the odds with his help.

House felt the wind be knocked out of him.

Those small, crinkled eyes would never open and see the world through cracked rose tinted glasses again. The boyish smile would never grace his face. The scheming words or laughter would never sound through these halls again.

A lump rose to House's throat. Quickly, he found a box under the desk and shoved all the photographs into it, facedown. He took a deep, shuttering breath. With rapid precision, he collected all the frames from the wall and shoved them in also. All the dolls were unceremoniously dumped last. He left the files and most of the desk alone. One of Wilson's lackeys would come in and reassign the cases to other doctors. He took a small toy car out of the first drawer and put it in his pocket. In the other drawer, he found small mementos that he had given him; a rubber chicken, two porn magazines [hetero and gay _("I didn't know which you'd prefer."_)], his playing cards, and other miscellaneous things people would label as junk. Not Wilson. Those items were his evidence that House had a heart, albeit small, deformed and demented.

He sniffled quietly.

Taken aback at the action, he noticed he had been crying for probably the whole time he was searching through the desk. His cheeks were wet and his eyes felt heavy. He remembered every time he gave Wilson each of the items. They were gifts.

He remembered the rubber chicken had been used to torture Foreman. Wilson and he had left it all over the hospital in places Foreman was sure to notice it. It drove the neurologist mad. They ended up playing catch with it in the hallway and House had bequeathed the chicken to Wilson.

He felt stupid reminiscing over toys.

He searched through the remaining drawers. The last one he had to jimmy [_no pun intended, he thought_] it open. Wilson would only lock the drawer if he didn't want him going through it. He used a pen knife to pick the lock. It took him over five minutes and several cuts to his fingers. The drawer finally slid open and held only an envelope. A single, plain white envelope.

He opened the envelope, ignoring the trembling of his hands. There were three tickets to a blues festival in Chicago and a receipt for two rooms at the Hilton. The receipt showed he had reserved the rooms two months ago. The tickets were for two months in the future, for the beginning of summer. Wilson had planned him a vacation. The third ticket he assumed was for any company that tagged along with him… or Cuddy. Wilson would think they would last over a year. Ever the cynical optimist in pessimist's clothing.

He put them back into the envelope and slid that into the box. He would deal with it later. He couldn't process those items at that moment.

It was already past 2. He yawned tightly. He needed to sleep and be prepared for the next day. House balanced the heavy box in one arm, limping stiffly and trying to keep himself balanced. The hospital was still dark and quiet. Patients were sleeping and caffeinated residents were either in their make-shift beds or wandering around aimless to keep awake. He didn't even see a nurse. He made his way out of the hospital and to his car parked at the curb, placing the box unusually gently in the back seat.

This Monday morning was the worst House had ever started. He did not hold any hope for the week.

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><p><strong>Many, many thanks to Akem1582! She's such a great beta. :D Thank you to everyone reading and reviewing this story, as well! You guys are awesome and it makes this writer so glad to see so many people enjoying the story. <strong>


	4. Ch 3 Two Minutes

**AN: Spotted a continuity error I made in chapter two. I had Cuddy tell House that Wilson's Mom and brother wanted him to go through Wilson's stuff. I deleted the Mom from the story and only want Daniel to be here. So I fixed it and we won't see Mrs. Wilson anytime soon. Hopefully it won't confuse anyone. Enjoy! **

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><p><em><strong>I'm sure it's clear and plain to me, <strong>_

_**It's not an alibi you need… just yet.**_

_**Oh no, it's something for those beads of sweat. **_

_**Yes, that we'll get you back to normal.**_

_**-"Dance Little Liar" by the Arctic Monkeys **_

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><p><em>"Pass me that beer would you?"<em>_  
><em>

_"Ugh, you are as needy as each of your ex-wives, I swear."_

_Sunday, February the first. This year it had marked the day when most Americans, whether long time fans or just in it for the parties, enjoyed the showmanship of two football teams competing to be crowned Super Bowl champs._

_House and Wilson were fond of the game but mostly due to the betting wagers and the excuse to take the day off for copious amounts of beer and junk food. Usually it was just them but this year they were joined by a leggy brunette and a needy man-whore whom House suspected Wilson had cornered and pressured into coming. Said brunette was in the kitchen, having insisted to cook some of the junk food herself. House could hear her speaking to herself aloud, going through a mental list of what she had and what to serve first. Bless her._

_Wilson sat in the lazy boy to his left while the Aussie was sitting in the other end of the couch with him._

_"Why'd you invite an Aussie for? This is clearly an American-only event. It's just as bad as seeing foreigners go to the game itself," he snarked, pitching his voice high and trying to get a rise out of the young man._

_"You realize they air the game abroad, too?" Chase replied. His smile was annoyingly infectious and House couldn't stop himself from smiling back, especially when seeing Cuddy come out of the kitchen out of the corner of his eye. She was balancing hot wings and dips in her arms._

_Without a second thought, he stood up to help her. The smile she graced him with was well worth the __quiet__ whispers of "whipped" and "aw, how cute" behind him._

_When she bent to place the wings on the table, the clingy, very low neck black shirt she wore became his favorite. She wore it with dark jeans that looked painted on her fabulous physique. He caught Chase admiring the shirt as well and quickly sent a look of daggers his way. The young doctor averted his eyes back to the game. _

_"I hope you like these," she said. "I haven't cooked junk food in ages."_

_"I'm sure it's delicious," Wilson piped up with a smile._

_"I'll let you know if it's crap," House told her."You know I'm not an ass-kisser like these two." _

_She laughed, husky and free, and reached over to palm his chin. She placed a quick kiss on his cheek._

_He felt himself blush a little, knowing Wilson and Chase were in full view of that rare display of public affection. He and Cuddy rarely did anything in front of "her employees." He guessed she was comfortable enough with him in front of his best friend and fellow. It made his heart leap._

_After two more trips to the kitchen, there were trays of sandwiches, potato wedges, nachos and stuffed jalapeños on the table along with bowls of chex mix, peanuts and plain chips. Each had beers that were starting to sweat in their cup holders._

_They ate and commented on the first half of the game. Cuddy had placed herself on House's right, leaning into him with her head occasionally resting on his shoulder. They laughed and teased each other. Wilson's chosen team was losing so gloating was thrown in with gusto. They were having a great time. _

_It was during half-time when everything changed._

_He had stepped out of the room to relieve himself. When he came back, it was silent. No Wilson. No Cuddy. Oddly, Chase was still there but his face was darkened and troubled._

_"Where's everybody?" House asked._

_He got no reply. The television was off and the table was cleared of all food and drink. The apartment itself was actually barer than when he entered it. There were chairs missing and the entryway was empty._

_"Chase?"_

_"How could you," the man snarled at him. His voice sounded different, low and feral._

What the hell_, he thought. He watched, frozen in place as Chase rose to his feet._

_"He was your friend."_

_The man placed himself in front of House. House could see his eyes were black._

_"He was your friend!" Chase screeched._

_House didn't realize he had been hit until he collided with the wall. His head rang and he saw stars. He slumped onto the floor, pain radiating in his jaw and crawling out in waves from his leg._

_"What a fucking bastard. How could you do that to the two most important people in your wretched life?"_

_House felt blood leave his nose as the man's foot met it. He could see the splash of it patterned out on the wall. Dizzily he looked up once more._

_"You should have died in his place."_

_With those last words, the man raised his foot again, readying it to stomp the cripple below him—_

* * *

><p>House woke up with a gasp. He was on top of his comforter, still in the jeans and shirt he wore when he went to Wilson's office. He was cold. The room was still dark but sunlight was streaming through the spaces of his shades. He raised his head slightly to check the time.<p>

Ten past nine.

He rested his head back onto his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Dreams meant nothing. It was a nightmare manifesting itself from all the drugs, booze, and horrible events that had happened already. He wasn't guilty of anything. He _hadn't_ been the one in the Cadillac. He _hadn't_ asked Wilson to visit him at the hotel that night.

Damn Cuddy and her residual guilt. He didn't need to justify his actions. He refused to feel guilty. He tried to shake the gnawing feeling out of his chest. It was the driver's fault. If the damn kid had been paying attention or wasn't drunk…

His leg gave off a twinge of pain. He still felt the effects of the past week and weekend. His stomach had settled, but his muscles were sore and his leg was telling him to reach for the orange pill bottle again. He spied the bottle on the other night stand. It held six pills. He could easily go through those pills in half a day. He had no intention of going to the funeral in four days' time, either strung out on vicodin or withdrawing from it. He wouldn't disrespect his best friend in that way. Friday he would do whatever the hell he wanted. He reached for the bottle. Shaking it, he knew he needed another bottle. He thought of all the places he stored his stashes. He should have one left in his kitchen, tucked away above the pan rack next to his stove. One of the corners had a false burrow in it.

Two white pills fell into his hand.

Were these really the cause of all his problems; two chalky white pills that tasted as bitter as he felt? He really had only taken a pill that week ago. One pill was all it took to shatter his drug sobriety and his relationships. One tiny, insignificant compound of pharmaceuticals; he dry swallowed the two in his palm.

The dream appeared in Technicolor in his mind. He huffed in annoyance. He could see the fury the man who kicked him had in his face. He remembered glimpses of that fury in silver eyes. Surprisingly he had never seen that in brown ones. It was always disappointment, anger, and sorrow in Wilson's. Never fury.

And he despised the oncologist for that.

He never lost control in that way. When he should have yelled and cursed, he frowned and walked away, disappointed instead. Walked away and into a Volvo that couldn't withstand a broadside from a Cadillac. He spied his Mac on floor on the other side of the bed.

Leaning over, he took it and logged on. He was going to find more information on the crash. Cuddy had given him only a brief synopsis of it. He wanted—no, needed—details. He wanted the name of the man who killed his best friend.

* * *

><p>It was one when he left the apartment. The sun was out and the skies were clear. It was cool out due to it being the end of March still. It was perfect day out to take his bike for a nice long ride. He pulled on his leather jacket and helmet and rolled the bike into the busy street.<p>

He sighed in relief when the engine purred to life. He expected the battery to be dead with eight or nine months of disuse. The last time he had driven it had been when he first started dating Cuddy. He ignored the memory. Immediately he shifted to first gear and tore off.

Traffic was shit. His destination was a half hour from Baker Street. He cussed at a couple drivers for cutting him off on the street. He kicked the driver door of a teenager texting and not paying attention. The kid had honked at him and hollered something but he was already racing down the next block.

He slowed his speed when he caught sight of the police station. He parked in the handicap space adjacent to the front door. Police officers were walking in and out and heading to the squad cars in the gated lot next to the station. He recognized the detectives shooting the breeze by the front doors by their crisp suits and vigilant eyes. They stared at him as he placed his jacket on the bike and took off his helmet. He had thrown on his blazer in the apartment in the hope it didn't make him too suspicious. He knew the cops wouldn't work with him if he looked like riffraff.

The young guy at the front desk was a cadet in a light blue work shirt. He spent five minutes answering different phone lines and being harassed by people with complaints and reports to file. He was impressed the kid took everything in stride and handled the complaints better than some of the older cops. House exaggerated his limp more and put on a very pained expression. It wasn't hard to fake.

"What can I help you with, sir?" the kid, Anthony his name tag read, asked. He stood straight and his voice was confident.

House cleared his throat.

"I'm here to speak with Marcus Flattery. I was told he was being held here until his trail."

He had found out the name of the driver through the Princeton Times. The writer had taken the accident and turned it into a campaign of prohibition, spurting propaganda of the evils of alcohol mixed with the irresponsibility of young adults. It was an awfully written article by a fascist. The cadet gave him a stern look.

"I can't let you see him, sir. He's not allowed visitors."

"See… I'm—I was a friend of the person who he hit. I wanted to speak with him…to get some closure about the incident."

He should have been given a Tony award for that performance. He stumbled over his words perfectly, pausing at the right moments, and his inflection was dripping in sadness. He looked down when appropriate. The cadet was instantly sympathetic to him. The kid looked around.

"Let me see if I can get an officer to escort you back to the cells. That's the best I can do."

"Oh, thank you so much! I _really_ do appreciate it."

He watched as the cadet walked away. House glanced around to see if any of the older cops were listening in. The kid was in the wrong profession if he caved that easily to a bit of a long face and pain. Anthony had the makings of an administrator, not a cop. He was much too trusting. Any of the more seasoned officers would have kicked his ass to the curb by now, seeing right through the closure façade in a minute. _Suspects_ were not _supposed_ to see any visitors connected to the victim before trail. This being Jersey, money took a person a long way.

The cadet returned with a surly looking officer. The officer looked him over and motioned him away from the crowd around the desk. The kid looked thoroughly chastised and kept darting dirty looks to the cop.

"I can't let you back there."

Short and to the point. The cop didn't waste his words and said them with an air of authority. He wasn't as easily manipulated as the kid.

"I just want to talk to him for two minutes. I'm a doctor so…"

He let himself trail off and made sure the cop followed his eyes to his wallet, now in his hand. The cop looked at the wallet and then met his eyes. House knew he had the guy. The cop had the crew cut and mustache that seemed a prerequisite to all the guys in blue, but he had an unctuous voice and his eyes weren't as naïve and hopeful as the rest of his colleague's. House had three hundred dollars in hundred dollar bills that could easily be palmed to the officer. Two minutes was all they both needed to not get caught.

"Come on, we'll talk more in my office."

The cop nodded to him and showed him through a side door. House nodded at the man, shaking his hand and slipping him the cash. The cop smirked and slid the money in his breast pocket when the door closed. He walked House through an almost empty back office. There were two other guys in the room, one watching a game show on a hand-held TV and the other furiously scribbling down a report. House and the cop walked by unnoticed.

"Guys are on their lunch or out on the streets. We're good," he added in explanation.

There was a steel door at the end of the hallway. Next to the door was a set of lockers. The cop unholstered his gun and placed it in the first cubby. He turned to House.

"You got anything on you, tell me now. I'm going to frisk you before I let you in there. Even if you have a pen in your pocket, leave it here; sunglasses, too. I've seen guys lose eyes and get cut up pretty badly because they were too stupid to think pens or glasses were not weapons."

House nodded and emptied his pockets. He left the keys to his bike in the second cubby along with a fountain pen he kept in the inside pocket of his blazer. He didn't have anything else. The cop patted him down and then stood up, taking out a set of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the steel door and swung it open. House recoiled at the smell of drunks, vagrants and people who hadn't showered in over twenty-four hours. The room felt almost humid. The cells consisted of eight by eight "rooms" furnished with a bed and a toilet. The cop walked ahead of him and to the sixth cell on the block. He unlocked the door, swung it open but remained outside.

"Hey Marcus. You got yourself a visitor." Turning to House, he smirked. "You have two minutes."

The cop gestured him inside. House stepped in and heard the door shut behind him. He stared at the guy inside, the guy who was responsible for his best friend's death. Flattery was sitting on his bed, elbows on his knees with his feet on the floor. House could see the terror and misery in his eyes. He was sweating and his eyes were red. He must have been only 21 or 22 years old.

"Wh-Who are you?" His voice shook.

This was the little bastard who was responsible for compounding his current misery. He stared at the guy a moment, taking in his polo shirt, white-washed jeans and sneakers.

"Get up," House told him quietly.

The kid stood up slowly, wide eyed and suspicious. He was half a foot shorter than him. His brown, curly hair clung to his forehead. He looked like a book nerd rather than a jock. House suddenly reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. He roughly shoved the kid into the nearest solid wall and pinned him to it.

"You son of a bitch," he growled. "Do you realize what you've done? Are you even sorry for it?"

He shook the kid, making sure his back met the wall hard.

"I-I di-didn't mean to! We were ju-just leaving a party and I got di-distracted and ran the li—"

House punched him right in the gut. He heard the air rush out of Flattery's mouth as he crumpled to the stone ground. His face was red as he coughed and sputtered. Tears wetted his cheeks as he sobbed, trying to catch his breath.

"I—I'm sorry! I—I know the guy was some big time doctor—I'm so, so sorry!"

House heard the door to the cell open.

"Two minutes."

He reached down and hauled the kid to his feet, shoving him against the wall again.

"That big time doctor's name was James Wilson. You won't ever forget it. I hope this colors every thought you ever make, every happy moment you experience, every minute of every day. He was a good man and he's dead because of you!" House shoved him harder. "Filth like you doesn't last in prison. Think about that and the man you killed."

House let him go. Marcus slid down the wall, crying and sobbing. House walked out of the cell without looking back. He could hear the clang of the door shutting close behind him and the whimpers muffled behind a plastic window. The cop showed him out. House gave him a short "thanks" and walked out of the building.

He didn't feel any better.

* * *

><p>It was almost four when he arrived home. His knuckles ached a bit from the punch he threw and his wrist felt swollen. He cursed himself for not keeping it straight. It had been a wild throw anyway. He took an ice pack out of the freezer and settled it on his wrist as he made his way back into the living room. He was going to go to Wilson's apartment tomorrow. He was going to take the rest of the night off to wallow in self pity, over analyze the situations he was in, and maybe take a long soak in his tub. The vicodin was only starting to put a dent in his pain. He flipped on the tube and started watching whatever mindless reality show was on.<p>

Twenty minutes and an ice pack later, his cell phone announced a text. He flipped open his phone to see the text:

_Meet me at Wilson's at 8. His brother wants us to go over funeral arrangements. _

Thanks to the Dean of Medicine, there went his plans for the night.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks to my lovely beta, Akem1582! I've had a lot of time on my hands from being sick so a lot of this story has been drafted out. Hopefully the next chapter will get posted in the middle of this week. Thank you all for reading and reviewing! It means so much to me! Next up, A LOT of HouseCuddy. **


	5. Ch 4 A Meeting Place

**AN: Thank you all, dear readers, for being so patient with me. I'm a bit busy with real life stuff, _blah, blah, blah, you must be thinking,_ and doing a lot of physically exhausting things that make me not want to go on a computer for a long time... However, I love this story and will be updating probably every two weeks. That's what I'm aiming for. Many thanks to the ever lovely Akemi1582 for being an awesome beta and to Iane Casey who did a brainstorming session with me and helped me out with some of the dialog. Go read "Broken Strings"... You'll love what she has planned next. *tease, tease* **

**Anyway, enjoy, read, and review at your leisure! Without further adieu... **

* * *

><p><em><strong>For weeks they had strolled around<strong>_

_**Playing the fools**_

_**They knew the time would come**_

_**And time would be cruel**_

_**Because it is cruel to everyone**_

_**He's crying out from the meeting place**_

_**He's stranded himself there**_

_**Where her voice still echoes,**_

_**"I'm sorry I met you darling,**_

_**I'm sorry I met you"**_

_**-"The Meeting Place" by The Last Shadow Puppets **_

* * *

><p>On <em>principle<em>, he was fifteen minutes late. He had left his apartment at eight o'clock and purposely took his time to Wilson's. She could wait for him for a change. When he knocked loudly on the apartment door, she answered it rather quickly. Cuddy gave him a very disgruntled yet relieved look. He puzzled over it a minute before seeing Wilson's brother, Daniel, in the living room.

"You're late," she snipped.

"Leg trouble," he said as insincerely as possible, still eyeing the man in the other room.

Daniel Wilson was slightly taller than his brother with darker brown hair. It was clearly oily and disheveled. He wore just a black shirt, blue jeans that were dirty at the knees and brown construction boots that were marred with mud. His small brown eyes darted between House and Cuddy, lingering on her more than was entirely appropriate. House knew she was very uncomfortable with Wilson's very schizophrenic brother. It wasn't the man's fault for his condition, but instinctively anyone who was near him knew the man was odd and not all there. Daniel had stubbornly decided to take care of himself. As far as House knew, Daniel was taking his medication. If he hadn't been, he probably would be wandering around the streets again.

"Hi Greg," the man steadily said, his voice similar to his brother's. He extended his hand. House shook it.

"Hi Danny. I'm… My condolences."

"Thank you. At least he died instantly."

House didn't reply to the odd comment. He and Cuddy shared a look before going to the kitchen counter.

"Shall we?" Cuddy asked; gesturing to the kitchen stools. House noticed she was still keeping her distance with him, but kept closer to him when Daniel walked near her.

"He's not going to bite," House whispered to her. She shot him a dirty look as she commandeered the seat next to him. Daniel was forced to sit in front of them on the other side of the counter.

"Thank you for coming over here, you two. I don't have any idea on what to get started from and no clue what James would have wanted and I know you guys were the closest to him and—"

"You're welcome, Daniel," Cuddy cut the man off. "You don't have to worry about the funeral arrangements. I already have them planned for Thursday at noon. House and I will go through your brother's stuff tomorrow."

She spoke in a clear, slow voice. House saw she was more confident with him there. To the untrained eye, she gave off an air of calmness but her expression twitched slightly every time Daniel blatantly studied her body.

"Okay, I don't want to do it. I don't want anything."

"Well, Danny boy, after James's exes, you'll get what his will wanted you to. Just think that you don't have to do anything or get near those harpies."

He could feel Cuddy's glare trying to burn a hole through his cheek, but he could care less since he made Daniel chuckle. Daniel stood abruptly.

"So we're done here? I'll see you on Thursday."

"Don't forget to wear a suit!" Cuddy blurted out. Awkwardly she tried to tone down the rudeness by adding, "We-It's just going to be a formal event and James would have wanted you to look nice."

House bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"Oh," the man said, standing just outside the entryway. "Okay, I'll try to remember." He walked out of the apartment, closing the door rather hard.

House saw Cuddy audibly sigh and relax. She straightened the papers in front of her before she met his gaze.

"What?" She snapped.

"He's not that bad. You made him more nervous by fidgeting and wearing that top." House put both elbows onto the counter and leaned forward, his eyes darting down to her exposed cleavage. She huffed in annoyance.

"You would be annoyed if he was leering at you for ten minutes while making weird statements and trying to make small talk."

"You shouldn't speak badly of the mentally ill," House pushed further. He was enjoying her unease too much.

"I speak ill of you all the time so now that—"

"Wow," he gasped, "you actually remembered that. See, I thought you had forgotten that _small_ detail for eleven months or so." He reached into his pocket and, looking her straight in the eye, dry swallowed two vicodin.

She didn't reply. Her eyes took on a shine for a moment before she blinked and turned her focus back to the papers in front of her.

"I asked you to come here because you would know the best photos and music to pick out for the procession. Also, I don't know what suit he would have preferred."

Her voice was quiet. The apartment suddenly seemed claustrophobic to him. The tension between them was not the good kind. It was heavy and oppressive. It was sexual in a way that made his body ache instead of enjoy. He sighed, suddenly weary and feeling the urge to flee her presence.

"Wilson was always a diehard traditionalist. He wore the standard tuxedos to his weddings and wore a tie to work every day. He would have wanted to be buried in his black suit. It'll be in the back of his closet, stuffed with moth balls in the pockets and in an airtight bag," he told her.

She nodded. "Since you know where it is and which one exactly, can you get it out for me? I don't feel right going through his stuff yet."

"You better suck it up for tomorrow," he said quietly as he stood from his seat. He noticed with Daniel gone, Cuddy had taken to giving him more personal space again. His jaw tightened at this.

"I just need a little more time before I dig through his stuff," she answered. He watched as she turned away from him, her eyes scanning all the belongings in the apartment. He could understand that.

"Come on," he beckoned, limping towards Wilson's room. The bed was made and the room as tidy as ever. House knew if he opened a drawer, Wilson's clothes would be folded neatly, his shirts perfectly aligned and his socks all matched. The walk-in closet was opposite to the door so they walked across the room, trying hard to ignore the photos that graced the tops of the dressers and nightstands. House opened the door to the closet, stepping inside and riffling straight to the darkest corner of the space. He walked out again, a large black, airtight suit bag in his hand. He laid it across the bed. The acrid smell of moth balls met his nose as Cuddy bent to open the bag.

"I need to get this dry cleaned before Thursday. Luckily it's only a little wrinkled." She took the suit out of the bag. It was sharp. The trousers and jacket were pitch black with the cut very in fashion. The shirt underneath was stiffly collared and shined a bit; silk then. A tie was draped across the hanger, thin and black. Cuddy whistled.

"For as cheap as he was at times, he didn't hold anything back when it really mattered. This suit is Armani and probably well over four thousand dollars."

"He spent four grand on a suit? If he spent that on his wives, one of them probably would have stayed," he snarked. He saw Cuddy roll her eyes as she gently tucked the suit back in the bag. She took it in her hand and made to leave the room.

"Hey! You forgot about his shoes. You don't want to bury the man barefoot do you?"

He limped back into the closet and found a pristine box, lightly dusty, with a pair of brightly shined black shoes. They would match perfectly with the suit. Cuddy made to take them. House pulled them back, tucking them under his arm.

"I'll take these."

As they walked out, a photo lying haphazardly on the dresser stood out to him. He stopped, the photo making him freeze on the spot. Whoever had taken it had done it without their noticing. Wilson was forefront, his "knowing" smiled plastered on his face. He saw himself next, eyes focused on whatever had been in front of him, but with a hint of a smile on his lips. He was holding hands with Cuddy who was the farthest seated in the photo. She was the only one who was looking at the camera, her smile bright and big, giving off that air of someone entirely happy. He studied the photo a moment more and figured out it was taken at Princeton-Plainsboro, inside the large, tiered meeting room. Wilson and he had been bullied to attend a meeting regarding the increased diagnosis of STDs in clinic patients. He had given a running commentary under his breath to the two people next to him about sex-while-stupid and the finer points of chemical castration in irresponsible males and females. Wilson had had to hold his breath and bite his cheek to keep from laughing. The speaker, a doctor whom he called Ray though it was far from his real name, prattled on and on about being informative and how to approach the 'delicate' subject matter with patients.

It had been nauseatingly boring.

Cuddy had pinched his arm a few times, but had given up on trying to make him stop. She had been bored stiff and needed the laugh. That had been three weeks ago.

He hadn't realized Cuddy had moved next to him, closer now than any other time in the apartment. She was looking at the brown eyed man with tears in her own.

"I can't believe he's gone," she quietly murmured.

House turned his head to look down on her. She starred at the photo as if mesmerized by its presence.

"Me, too," he said, realizing how deep his voice sounded. "We should use this one in the memorial… if you want."

He thrust the photo into her hand and made to move out of the room.

"House, wait."

Cuddy grabbed his arm, her grip firm over his forearm. It was the first time she had touched him in weeks. He had forgotten how soft the skin of her hand was. That simple touch sent a wave of longing and fear through him. He met her grey eyes. He was momentarily distracted by how red they were and how a single tear slid from the inside corner of her right eye down her cheek.

"Please, don't be like this now." Her words shook him out of his reverie.

"What do you mean? I'm helping you, Cuddy, nothing more, nothing less." He answered.

"I meant, please, don't act like you didn't care about him. We all know how much you did."

His face scrunched up in anger.

"Are you sure _you're_ the one not on drugs?"

He watched as she was ruffled by his comment. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Her grip loosened on his arm.

"I think you need to talk to someone and I'm willing to listen -"

"Are you really?" He snapped. "I distinctly remember trying to speak with you, in a civil manner," he snidely added in, "and you refused to listen. This is just your misguided guilt trying to displace itself through me. You're done with me, Cuddy. Don't try to 'be there for me' when you're clearly not."

"I wasn't talking about us, House," she replied fiercely. "Wilson is the one lying in my hospital's morgue. Don't you feel any responsibility or guilt for that?"

"I do," he honestly replied without hesitation. Her expression turned into one of shock. She hadn't expected him to answer her truthfully, he thought. "The last time I saw him he was looking at me with disgust and disappointment. The last words I said to him were to get the hell out of my way and to leave me alone. I chose to party with a bunch of undergrads rather than listen to him. And even though I wasn't the one driving that fucking truck, I still feel as if I've rammed into his stupid volvo. I won't ever forget that or have that feeling leave me." He glared at her and jerked his arm out of her grip. Her touch was going to burn into his skin if he had kept up the contact.

"I'll talk to someone… but not you. We're done, Cuddy. You made that crystal clear."

The words flew effortlessly out of his mouth, but his chest felt tight. Though he should have felt like gloating at the stunned and sorrowful look on her face, for hurting her, he didn't feel like it was a victory or anything to celebrate. Another tear fell to her cheek.

"I want us to be how we were before the break-up, House. I'm tired of this snipping and fighting-"

"All we did was fight before and during our relationship," he cut in.

They stood in silence for moment.

"Fine, friends then," she said, a hint of hopefulness seeping into her voice. He hated himself for what he would say next.

"I can't be friends with you, Cuddy. Not after everything that's happened." He watched as her lip trembled and she looked away. "You're my boss. I'm your employee. That's it."

She laughed sadly.

"What I wouldn't have given to hear those words out of your mouth five years ago."

He felt his lip twitch of its own volition.

"We were different people then."

She raised an eyebrow haughtily.

"What happened to 'People don't change?'"

"People don't change," he stated and smirked. "You only get to know who they really are better. Perspective changes. I sometimes wish I never knew you better."

He watched as her face finally crumbled. He saw the strength she was using to keep her composure ebb away as she sat herself on Wilson's bed, disturbing the immaculate comforter and sheets beneath it. She gave great heart-wrenching sobs that bit at his heart. Reluctantly, he moved in front of her, kneeling down on his good leg. His cane was left propped up against the bed. He slowly moved toward her, his right hand moving to clasp her left which was fisted against her thigh. Once he touched her, she clutched his hand. She took another deep shuddering breath.

"I hate not being able to talk to you, House. We've trapped ourselves in some hell of our own-making. We never were cautious or weary around each other before."

"I know," he said quietly.

She wiped at her reddened face with her right hand.

"I already miss him so much… He was always pestering me about his department, you, your team, their procedures, overtly and covertly…"

Unconsciously, he wiped the next tear that fell to her cheek. He startled her slightly with the feel of his calloused thumb on her cheek, but he followed through with the motion, caressing her. He dropped his hand back down to his side. He grew uncomfortable as she searched his face.

"After he spoke to you, he would always come speak to me next. Nagging me about whatever stupid and dangerous procedure I was contemplating. He would try to bribe my team from time to time but they're already too well-trained as you've seen." He said this only to clear the awkwardness of the moment. It wasn't to console her, he told himself. "And then he would subtly egg me on. He was never as nice as you thought he was."

She gave him a weak chuckle. Her face had lost some of its redness and her eyes had cleared.

"Come on," he tugged at her hand that was still in his. "It's late and you have a daughter at home who is either asleep or wondering where the heck her mother is."

Their fingers slipped away from each other as they stood up. His leg had stiffened up on him and he bounced on his good leg in order to maintain his balance. He wasn't going to take another dose of vicodin for another three hours so he had to bear with the small twinge of pain it gave off.

"House."

His name was called softly as he righted himself. But he felt off-balance immediately again when Cuddy put both hands on his shoulders, reached up, and kissed his cheek. Her lips were dry and warm. He stopped that thought process immediately. She stepped away from him, her head down with her eyes anywhere but on him, and walked out of the room.

He found her in the kitchen, placing the papers she had taken out earlier back into her purse.

"What the Hell was that?" He exclaimed.

She looked up, failing at nonchalance.

"I didn't mean to do that. You were being _normal_ and I-I couldn't help myself. It won't happen again."

"Like my taking vicodin wouldn't have happened again?"

"It's not like that!" She huffed at him. "I-"

"Because I meant what I said. It was a one time deal and I'd like to know if this was, too. You know… to prepare myself for the agony."

She rolled her eyes and gave him an impatient look.

"I'm sorry. Now can we forget about this? As you pointed out earlier, I do have a daughter waiting for me at home. Good night, House."

She met his eyes once as she brushed past him, slamming the door and leaving him alone in Wilson's apartment. He needed time to think about their situation and how they were either going to work through it or kill each other. There was no other option he could tell was available. Looking around once more, he didn't feel right standing in the living room of Wilson's apartment…alone. The hum of the electrical appliances made him uneasy. He turned off the lights and exited the apartment. He would only need to go there once more to sort through Wilson's stuff tomorrow, but that was it. He wouldn't visit this place again.


	6. Ch 5 As Subtle as an Earthquake

**AN: For this chapter I had a special beta come in the form of the wonderful AdieAngel. Thank you for going over this with a very fine-toothed comb! Without her and Akemi1582's input, I would have been lost and a weeping writer. So now I have two betas and a fellow (enthusiastic) writer (who will be mentioned next chapter *****wink,wink*****) going over this. Thank you all! **

**Also, Thank you for all the reviews, alerts, views, and favorites. I'm so glad you, dear readers, are enjoying this story despite the sadness of it. I recommend tissues for this chapter and the next. -Penelope**

* * *

><p><em><strong>"About as subtle as an earthquake, I know, <strong>_

_**my mistakes were made for you." **_

_**-"My Mistakes were made for You" by the Last Shadow Puppets**_

* * *

><p>When he had arrived home the night before, he had gone straight to bed. It had only been ten o'clock or so but the stress of death and of Cuddy's momentary lapse in judgment had made him exhausted. On top of that, the Vicodin had been wearing off and was making him feel every step he took like a dagger into his thigh. Of course, sleep did not come easily. He struggled with his mind, trying to bring it to a dull roar instead of the whirling vortex it was. He could feel the softness of her lips. He saw Wilson's puppy-dog brown eyes looking at him with such sadness. He imagined two different voices growling his name. In order to stop that line of thought he gave in to the drugs. The bitter taste lingered on his tongue before he fell into a restless sleep.<p>

It was nine-thirty when his cell phone rang for the first time. He lifted a bleary eye to see the small device vibrate on the wooden surface of the nightstand. He ignored it.

At nine-forty, the phone rang again. This time the voice message alert beeped at him accusatorially. He turned his face away from the phone.

The vibrations started again at nine-forty-five. This time they only ceased for a moment before starting immediately again.

And again.

With a moan, he flipped over once more and reached out for the hated piece of plastic.

"What?" he grumbled into the phone. "I don't have a patient so-."

"Get your ass up and out of bed," Cuddy barked in his ear, "We need to go to Wilson's this afternoon to pick out the photos and music for… tomorrow. We didn't do it last night."

"Why do you have to be there? Don't you have an orphan to take care of?"

It was silent down the line for a moment. He shifted onto his back, his left hand running through his hair. He knew that was a low blow.

"Wilson was my friend, too, House," she said softly.

He took in a deep breath. It really wasn't the time to be petty and vindictive so he swallowed down the rest of the retorts and comments on the tip of his tongue.

"I can be there by eleven."

"Okay."

He could practically feel the relief flow out of her and through the phone. He hung up and glanced back at the digital clock. Five past ten. He took in a deep breath. This would be a very long Wednesday in an already horrible week.

* * *

><p>They arrived at the same time. He was parking his bike up on the sidewalk of Wilson's apartment complex when she parked at the curb fifteen feet in front of him. He saw the door gingerly open to avoid on-coming traffic. He slipped off his helmet and unzipped his leather jacket. He watched as a black high heel appeared, followed by a calf and then another heel. It always amused him to watch a woman climb out of a car with a tight skirt. Cuddy swung her legs to the ground and straightened immediately. She threw her head back slightly to get the wayward strands of hair out of her face. She mounted the curb and with a flick of her wrist, clicking the lock button on her key ring. The Lexus squeaked pitifully twice before going silent. He saw she was wearing her 'work' clothes and guessed she had to go in sometime today. The deep purple blouse was buttoned unusually high and the grey skirt wasn't as tight as it usually was. She finally noticed him, her step faltering before she caught herself. House could see the armor strengthening around her person.<p>

"Hi," she said in greeting, reaching for the door and walking through first.

He held it open as she walked through, replying with a nod. They stood in silence at the elevator door. She kept her eyes firmly in front of her or to her right, opposite of where he was. The prominent vein in her neck was ticking at a fast rate. It annoyed him. He grasped his cane near the middle and quickly hit it against the metal of the elevator's metal doors. He could swear Cuddy's skin came loose like a cartoon's when frightened. She stiffly jumped and threw him the dirtiest look he had received to date.

"What the hell was that?"

"You're acting like a rabbit with a dog's teeth inches from its neck. We're only looking for photos and music. That's it. So snap out of it."

"Nothing is 'only' with us, House."

The doors to the elevator finally opened to the lobby and they walked in, House stepping in front of her and pressing the button to the third floor. She stood at the opposite corner of the small space, fuming silently. Her body language screamed a mixture of discomfort, stress, and anger. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her spine straight. Her jaw was clenched. The elevator reached their floor in seconds, lurching slightly before opening the doors to the floor hallway. Cuddy had cut him off while stepping off the elevator, walking pompously in front of him. He was glad. He was able to relax his upright posture and really favor his leg as he walked. It had been stiff when he awoke, but he had chosen to take only one pill. He wasn't going to be strung out for the funeral tomorrow so getting used to the pain again was necessary.

He wished he didn't care so much.

Wilson would have been so _proud_, he thought disgustedly. Instead of indulging in the pills like he desperately wanted to, he was voluntarily restricting his intake. He didn't want to be an addict again. He didn't want to rely on white pills to walk around or even 'function'. That wasn't functioning. It wasn't living. Even when he was with Cuddy he realized he was just getting by. He was substituting one addiction for another; one obsession for another.

He needed to live with himself, not artificial substances and beings.

He needed to get used to his own skin again.

_No saviors._

He heard the soft tinkle of keys. Cuddy opened the apartment door and left it open for him to follow. Sunlight filled the apartment and colored the white walls a warm golden yellow. With the living room windows facing the East, the room was already warm from being in direct line with the sun. Cuddy placed her purse on the kitchen counter.

"Do you know where he kept his photos? I thought we could use some of the ones he had hanging, too."

"Yes," he replied. "He has - had them organized on his hard drive. I saw his computer in his spare room last night."

House didn't wait for her to speak again. He limped off in the direction of Wilson's make-shift office and found the Macbook lying on his desk. Papers were lying off to the side haphazardly. Flipping through them, he saw they were just bills and a printed-out excel sheet of his budget. He smirked. Wilson, always ready, always prepared, was - had been - the ultimate boy scout. He disconnected the computer from its charger. It was smaller than his own computer, a fact he had told his best friend _numerous_ times and with such pleasure. Wilson's rebuttal was that he could at least read what was on the screen without the need for glasses or 'old-man' sized font and icons. He limped back into the kitchen to the smell of fresh coffee percolating the sound of it slowly dripping from its well down into the glass pot. For a moment he thought of how tacky it was of _her_ to dig through a dead man's cupboards, but his rational mind reminded him it would only be thrown away if no one used it. It was coffee, not some precious keepsake.

He placed the computer in front of him and turned it on. It was password protected but he knew the various words, numbers, and mash-ups Wilson would have used. It took him less than a minute to guess the correct one. He smiled to himself as he saw the desktop wallpaper. It was a collage of Hitchcock original film posters. _Rebecca_ was prominent in one corner with the faces of Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine. That had appealed to the oncologist's quiet obsession with genuine horror and romanticism. The idea of someone's living, cherished memory being so different from the evil of their reality made the man shiver, and he tried to philosophize with House for an hour after every time they watched it. House would have rather watched the trailers to the films, watching _the_ director of directors tempt the audience with equal parts humor and fright. Seeing a poster for _Frenzy_, one of Hitchcock's last films, he remembered when he and Wilson had fought over whether it had been good or bad. He had argued it had been well-done even with the murderer so obvious. He had laughed at the crass remarks Bernard Cribbins's bartender made towards the women he served and who would ultimately be found floating face up in the Thames or in the back of a potato truck. Wilson had hated the film. _"Hitchcock was way past his prime…"_ he had argued. They never agreed and sipped on their bottles of beer at the exact same time, accepting the impasse.

It was too silent all of the sudden. The subtle drip of the coffee had stopped and he glanced up to see Cuddy on the other side of the counter watching him, her face inscrutable. He couldn't decide if she looked curious about his obvious woolgathering or worried about what he might do now that he had caught her. She pushed a cup of coffee towards him and stood back, taking a small sip from her own mug.

"Thanks," he muttered, reaching the rest of the way for the cup and bringing it to his lips. She had remembered how he liked his coffee: a dash of milk with a tablespoon of sugar, enough to mask the bitter taste of the strong Columbian blend Wilson favored. He chose to ignore the pang that had pressed into his chest by this revelation.

Moving his index finger around on the faceplate of the computer, he pulled up Wilson's photo files. Here, too, the man was organized: each folder named and dated. There were photos from barbeques, with ex-wives and girlfriends, with himself and Cuddy at various hospital functions. He didn't know what to pick. His eyes hovered over those boyish features and looked away. He turned the computer over to Cuddy.

"Here are the files. You choose."

He would have laughed at the sudden frozen, deer-in-the-headlights look that came over her face if it hadn't been for his own cowardice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw right the computer in front of her. He watched her chest raise and slowly descend back. Her eyes darted from photo to photo, too quick to take in anything, he thought. He took another drink of his coffee, scalding himself for taking a huge gulp. He sputtered and coughed.

"Are you okay?" He heard her ask.

The computer was left forgotten.

"I'm-" he coughed. "I'm fine. Did you find which ones you wanted to use?" He deflected. Carefully, he took a smaller sip.

Her eyes fell, downcast, and glanced at the open computer files.

"I don't know what he would have liked. You knew everything about him. I couldn't even tell you what his favorite song was."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said. He wondered how long they could keep up the semi-normal conversation.

"Tell me," she pressed, taking another long sip of her drink.

"It was 'Dazed and Confused.' Wilson was a closet Jimmy Page* fan for decades."

"You were right. I don't believe you." She smiled. He took it in for a moment longer before looking down at his hands, now cupped around his cup.

"He had tickets to see Zeppelin in 1980. He had conned his mother into buying them for his birthday regardless of what she thought might happen to her 15 year old kid. Anyway, the concert was in November and you know what happened before then."

"The drummer died."

"Yep, and no more concert. If he was drunk and nostalgic enough, you never saw such irrational hatred toward an alcoholic before."

Cuddy laughed softly. He noticed the computer screen had moved to sleep mode so he turned it towards himself once more and entered the password. The photos were still on the main screen. Cuddy moved it slowly so that it was in the middle, both of them able to see the screen clearly. House moved his hands and wondered what she was doing.

"I was thinking twenty photos on loop should be enough for the memorial. What do you think of this one?"

Unsaid, it was an olive branch.

"Yeah, put that one up." He had barely seen the photo but choose to accept the cease-fire she was offering. She rarely asked for help or compromised.

They looked through more photos, each of their eyes watery and red at different times, but they pushed on. House thought they had gone over maybe five hundred photos before they finished. Twenty photos of Wilson; as a white-blond haired baby even in a black and white photo, a toddler, a five year old in a tweed jacket for kindergarten, with his family, many friends, graduations, at the hospital, with the favorite cancer stricken kids, and by himself. There had been only one photo where he was by himself, standing in the lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro and smiling at something or someone.

Cuddy sniffled and reached for a napkin. House's nose felt slightly swollen, also, and his eyes were wet. He crushed down the overwhelming feeling of despair and focused all of his energy into not giving in until the next night when he could wallow alone and undisturbed for several days.

"I expect him to walk in here and offer us more coffee," Cuddy murmured, looking down at her empty cup. "I can almost imagine his ornery laugh just in the next room."

"He would have yelled at us for going through his computer. He has a 'hidden' folder on here with some _very_ interesting videos."

"If they're anywhere near as _interesting_ as yours, I can see why they're hidden."

Their shared look lasted a moment before he turned his attention back to the computer. He pulled up Wilson's music, hoping Cuddy would follow his lead and continue on their task.

"How long do we need the music to play?"

"A half hour should be good. I have an official saying a few words first and I'll - I'll say a few. Um…" The hesitation made him weary. He had a feeling of what she was about to ask of him.

"I was wondering if you would do the eulogy? His brother won't say anything in front of all those guests."

He stared at the keyboard without really seeing it. He couldn't do it. Baring his emotions in front of a room of people was a torture he thought he would endure in hell. Most of the people present would expect the worst of him. Most had been harassed, cheated, and maybe even battered by him. He didn't give a fuck about what they thought of him, but if they started to change their opinion of the oncologist's carefully made nice-guy persona, he would get in a fist fight in the parking lot. He wasn't going to disgrace his best friend. He-

"I can understand if you don't want to… I can ask Chase to say something. He's a good-"

"I'll do it."

He ignored the stunned silence.

"Wilson has a lot of acoustic songs that'll fit in best," he scrolled on the computer.

"House."

"Don't, Cuddy. I'll do it. It's done." He cut her off. He didn't want to hear it.

"I just wanted to say thank you."

He nodded and continued selecting songs Wilson had loved. He created a folder for it and emailed it to her work account. He logged off and shut the machine down.

"What time is the service?" he asked, standing up. He was hurting. They had been at the apartment for the better part of two hours, seated on bar stools with thin cushions under them. Cuddy stood up and stretched.

"Noon at Hamilton's Mortuary."

He was grateful when she stepped out of the kitchen and made her way towards the bathroom, presumably to freshen up. He walked a lap around the kitchen, muffling the _thump thump _of his cane. The bones of his back popped and cracked as he straightened his strides. For not popping a pill for two hours, he felt decent. He would need to take one in the next hour before he started to really withdraw again. Vomiting and sweating profusely at the service would be frowned upon. He had another day to get through first before he thought of those consequences. He jumped when he felt fingers brush his arm.

"Sorry," Cuddy said. "I'm going to the hospital now to make sure the mortician has… him ready. I had Mr. Hamilton prepare him at the hospital so the news reporters couldn't get to him."

"I'm going with you."

She scowled at him.

"You don't have to, House. Wilson would not have-"

"We don't know what he would have wanted. It wasn't like he was expecting to die young."

"You know what I meant."

"I do, but it doesn't matter. He's dead."

"It does matter to you. That's why you're terrified for tomorrow. That's why you haven't even mourned him properly," she started. "Even though you think me a callous bitch, I still know you."

"So you know why I need to go."

"Yes… but you don't have to."

He glanced at her one last time before he spoke.

"I'll follow you there."

"Fine," she sighed reluctantly.

* * *

><p>The nurses and other doctors stared as the Dean and the 'delinquent' walked through the lobby doors. No one had seen him enter the hospital the night he had cleaned out Wilson's office so it was assumed this was his first day back. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the curious and gossipy looks the nurses were throwing him. He knew news of his and Cuddy's relationship ending was the talk of the building, but Wilson's sudden death trumped all other gossip. He would have to check with Chase on the current betting pools to have an accurate account of the stories being spread.<p>

Cuddy kept giving him sidelong, angry looks as they stood side by side, waiting for the elevator to descend from the upper levels. She had tried once more to dissuade him from going to the hospital, but he was adamant. He wanted to see the body. She had given up when the roar of his bike drowned out her voice. He didn't know why she was objecting to him. He thought she would be all for him seeing it. But maybe she…

"I'm not doing this for anyone but him. I owe him this," he told her, breaking the silence and her mood.

A perfectly formed eyebrow was raised and her lips were thinned. She didn't comment though the atmosphere had lightened. He couldn't believe she was thinking he was using this, manipulating the situation for his own gains. He bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't going to make a scene no matter how much it was ingrained in his genetics to act out in indignation. He should have known she would think so. She always assumed the worst of him. Not even here she was going to give him a chance.

The elevator ride down was the most uneventful moment of their entire time together, he thought drearily. The doors opened to a dimly lit hallway. He rudely stepped in front of her and made his way to a steal double-door. He grasped the handle but didn't turn it.

"Give me a minute, will you?" His voice was rough and wooden. The handle was icy to his touch.

"Sure," she answered in almost a whisper.

He turned the knob and slipped inside.

The air was thick and frozen in the room. Only one overhead light was on, illuminating the man on the table. The suit had fit him perfectly. The shoes shined brightly after being freshly polished. The man's skin was white, translucent almost. His eyes were closed with his eyelashes almost meeting his cheeks. His brown hair was swept back with a part to the right.

It was all wrong.

Incredibly, horribly wrong.

The metal slab wasn't supposed to be there. The man was supposed to jump up and yell 'Surprise! You son of a bitch!' and jauntily walk out to other members of his staff. There wasn't supposed to be silence. There wasn't supposed to be the fresh cuts along the left side of his face or the obvious sewing up of the top-most part of his head where it met with the window. His hair couldn't hide that wound well.

House saw all this and had not even moved from the threshold.

He was hesitant to take a step, not knowing whether his legs would support him. He was afraid to get any closer to the body in front of him. In all of his years of practicing medicine, he had never hesitated when confronted with a dead body. It was just decaying flesh slowed by formaldehyde and made to look lively by make up.

The hand gripping his cane was wet with perspiration and trembled slightly. He gripped it tighter and placed it in front of him. He took a tentative step and almost sighed in relief when he didn't crumble to his knees. He took another and four more until he was looking down at the dead man. His fingers grazed the cold metal of the table.

House searched his best friend's face. He looked… dead.

His hand clenched into fists with his knuckles now resting heavily on the slab. He felt his jaw clench. Wilson wasn't supposed to leave him alone. He was supposed to be the one laying here. The echoing of his voice startled him. He hadn't realized he had spoken aloud. He glanced at the door making sure Cuddy hadn't heard him. There was no movement from what he could see. He glanced down again.

"James," he whispered. No, that wasn't right. "Wilson."

"Why were you the only one who had faith in me?" he whispered.

Everyone in his life, with maybe the exception of his mother whom he hadn't spoken with in three months, gave up on him. But never Wilson. He was ever the stead-fast side-kick. Even when House had [unintentionally] killed his girlfriend, Wilson came back and forgave him. The oncologist forgave him. He never held anything against House.

"I'm sorry," House suddenly said.

The quiet rankled his nerves. It agitated him like never before.

"I'm so sorry."

He shivered. The cold was seeping into his old bones. To think he used to have lunch in here, to hide from Wilson and Cuddy in this cold, dark room.

"I'm sorry, Wilson," he said louder. His chest was constricted and he felt the warmth of tears falling onto his cheek. He wanted to see those brown eyes offer him absolution one last time. He had never wanted or needed someone's forgiveness so much. He couldn't remember a time when he offered his apologies with so much urgency.

His fist met the table quickly, the flesh, bone and metal creating a sharp boom.

"You weren't supposed to be there!" he said harshly, "You, idiot! Why did you have to be there for me? Didn't I tell you, you were a sucker, chasing after needy people? No, you were optim—no, you weren't an optimist. You were the devil's advocate. You found the neediest, meanest SOB in the hospital and toyed with him. You thought—hoped— everything would be right in the word—well, it fucking isn't!"

He took sure, measured steps around the table, tears still making their way down his stubble, his face flushed with anger. His breathing was labored and he gulped what little oxygen he could into his lungs.

"Wilson, please," he harshly muttered. His back bent as if the world decided to rest there and press down cruelly. His arms were stretched out, his hands clutching the tablet to keep himself upright.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He heard the creak of the door open and he immediately used the last of his strength to stand up quickly and turn his back to it. He took a deep breath to center himself and let it out harsher than he wanted to.

"Give me another minute," he said, his voice hoarser than he wanted it. "Please," he grated out.

He heard a soft "okay" and the door slowly shutting close. When he was alone, he sniffled loudly and wiped both hands across his face. He needed a drink. He needed to get back home and forget this was here. Forget his best friend was being interred in the ground tomorrow. Forget the last person in the world who gave a damn about him was lying cold, alone in a sterile crypt.

House stared at Wilson. This was one of the last times he would see the man. Tomorrow would be the very last.

The funeral march was already sounding in his ears.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: *If you do not know, Jimmy Page was a guitarist and writer for the band, Led Zeppelin. John Bonham was their drummer who unfortunately died of alcohol related asphyxiation in September of 1980, canceling their North American tour and ultimately leading to the break-up of the band. Wilson's story is based on a true one. Thank you again for reading!<strong>


	7. Ch 6 That Day

"_**And my fingers scratch at my hair**_

_**Before my mind can get too reckless**_

_**The idea of seeing you here**_

_**Is enough to make the sweat grow cold…" **_

_**-"The Age of the Understatement" by The Last Shadow Puppets. **_

* * *

><p><em>5:00 AM<em>

There were spider webs on the left corner of the ceiling. They moved slightly with every almost non-existent breeze. The room was starting to become more visible with the early morning dawn soaking through the drapes. The thin rays permeating through were harsher and colder than any he could remember seeing in his life. Even on the morning he woke up from his most hated surgery, the daylight was a testament to his survival. It was probably the only positive thought he had had that day.

He didn't want it to be _today_. He wanted it to be several _tomorrows _from now. He wanted it to be _weeks_ from _yesterday_ when life had been as good as it could ever have been. Time was showing him no mercy this horrible day. It crept up on him and then slowed to a crawl. He noticed only three minutes had passed when it felt more like thirty.

He wished he could have a drink. Or a smoke. Or a Vicodin or five. He wanted to not feel the hollowness of his own chest. He would prefer the burn of scotch slipping down his throat rather than the frigid, stale air he was inhaling. Not today. He wouldn't touch anything. He didn't want to give Cuddy the 876th reason to hate him even more. He didn't want to disrespect his best friend in that way. Tomorrow he would indulge, he kept thinking to himself. Whether it was true, was yet to be seen. He thought of laying off everything again. He had stayed clean for almost two years. It would hurt immensely but he could do it. Knowing that, would be a huge help. Knowing he could do it all on his own, was the deciding factor. He didn't need anyone. Not now, anyway.

_8:00 AM _

The shower was beating down on his bare back like hot needle pricks. He already felt jittery and hung-over. The hot water soothed his aching muscles somewhat but the soreness would be back before noon. He had both hands against the tile, helping to keep himself balanced on one good leg. He let himself breathe in the steam building up in the small bathroom. It helped clear his head somewhat. Carefully, he placed some of his weight on his right leg. Pain lanced through his thigh and up the nerve endings of his spine. He gritted his teeth.

"Damn it," he muttered.

He brought most of his weight off of it again. He leaned against the tiled wall to his right and reached for the soap. Getting himself clean took only four minutes of the half hour shower.

_8:35 AM _

He shuddered as he opened the bathroom doors to his room and to the hallway. The draft made goose bumps appear on his skin. The steam started to dissipate. He wiped off the condensation on the mirror and then wrapped the towel around his waist. His chest and arms were still red from the shower. He noticed for the first time the sparse hairs on his chest were going whiter. He still had a strong physique but he could see the signs of progressive aging like a light tower beacon. His right hand rose to his cheek and ran along the stubble there and down to his chin. Impulsively he reached for the still-practically brand new shaving cream inside the cabinet to his left. A Bic razor followed, it's blades still sharp from only being used once or twice. He couldn't remember. He thought the last time he had shaved had been when he was going to go into an interview for St. Sebastian's. Wilson had complimented him when he had walked out into the living room. If there was any sort of afterlife he didn't believe in, he thought Wilson would laugh or smile at the irony of his shaving again. House carefully positioned the razor against his skin, right at where his sideburn started, and dragged it down carefully.

_10:00AM _

Cuddy had tried calling him twice. She didn't bother a third time. She had left a voicemail after the second call, but he didn't listen to it. He couldn't take her voice today. He needed all his energy to focus on not crumbling, not fucking up the funeral in a fit of uncontrolled agony. He had the decency to send her a text stating '_I'll be there at 11:45_' in case she had any ideas of coming around to his apartment. She wasn't welcomed there today or in the near future.

He was laying down with his back propped up slightly by three pillows. He was staring at the suit that he had placed on the front of his wardrobe, hanging from the latch. It was black. The shirt, tie, undershirt, and socks he would wear were black. Only the boxers he now wore bore any color but they, themselves, were a drab dark grey. Black, the color of mourners and those who had sinned… he almost smirked at that thought.

_10:40AM _

In order to be at the mortuary at 11:45 as he had texted Cuddy, he needed to leave at 11:15. Hamilton's was located on the other side of Princeton. With his bike, he could have made it there in fifteen minutes, but he couldn't risk getting his suit dirty. The horrid traffic would slow him down and make him stew the whole half hour.

His trousers were on with a matching belt and his shirt was pristine and tucked in. He chose silver cufflinks that Wilson had gifted him many yuletides ago. He ignored the way his hand shook. He switched his Nikes for Rockport dress shoes. These were also almost brand new. He couldn't remember a time when he wore them. He limped into the bathroom to check his appearance in the mirror and immediately wanted to put his fist through it. The man in front of him was old and worn even in the pristine suit. Looking at himself and the clothes, he thought of the metaphor of putting new wine in old wineskins. The skins would burst and all would be ruined. It was the same principle with him though he would put off bursting until he was alone again.

His hair was whiter and thinner. He had more lines than ever on his grizzled face. His skin was unusually smooth due to the shave and smelt like old spice. His eyes were losing there brilliant cerulean and fading into a dull light blue. He wouldn't be considered ruggedly handsome in the near future. He would just be rugged and used like an old piece of leather. He gave himself seven more years of mortality. He didn't think he would last that long without the drugs and alcohol.

He glanced at his watch. It was 11:15.

_11:42 AM_

The parking lot was completely full. He was lucky to find one handicap space on the street and he limped up to the khaki colored building. He made sure his suit jacket was buttoned properly and his shirt and tie straight. He saw some people from the hospital give him staggered looks. He tried to ignore the need to snap at them. He saw Chase at the doorway greeting people and handing them a program. He nodded to his boss quickly and then turned his attention to the others walking in.

The memorial room of the mortuary was big, probably holding three hundred people easily. It looked as if the entire hospital had shown up. His eyes scanned the crowd and he spotted Foreman sitting with Taub. Thirteen sat in the back left-hand corner, trying to blend in and not be noticed. She would hate funerals more than the average person, he thought. He saw Wilson's fellows and staff sitting together near the front. Daniel had been placed in the front row on the right. He saw Cuddy looking back towards the door as she turned in her seat at the front, but on the left side. He scowled at her blatant distance from Daniel. He watched as she finally noticed him, her expression changing from annoyance to shock in a moment. She waved him over.

He moved through the crowd that was trying to get seated. House saw two of the three former Mrs. Wilson's were present. Both Sam and Bonnie were silently crying and comforting each other. Julie was the missing one, probably too scared of facing House for cheating on his best friend and kicking him out of their home. He finally had made his way through to the front and was met by Cuddy on her towering black Manolos. She was wearing a black dress, one of the most modest he had seen her wear. It clung to her, but it was not skin tight. The neckline was tasteful. Her hair was straight and her make up light. He would bet twenty bucks that she wearing water-proof mascara.

"Because we're the first ones speaking, we're in the front row," she said as she ushered him to an empty seat beside her. He took the one next to that one. She frowned for a moment, rolling her eyes as she sat down herself. She leaned over to him and spoke softly over the murmur of the other mourners.

"The official had an emergency so I'm going to say a few words first and once I'm done, I'd like it if you would give the eulogy after."

He nodded not trusting himself to speak. He wondered if his face looked as drawn and weary as hers was. Was he as pale? He couldn't look at her. He finally glanced to the front of the room and saw the casket. No expense was apparently too high for the oncologist. The wood was spotless and gleamed in the fluorescent lights. The metal hand-bars and latches were silver.

His chest clenched and he let out a shaky breath at his next thought.

He didn't know who was going to lift the casket and walk it outside. In his condition, there was no way he could do it. He was not going to be a pallbearer for his best friend though he should have been. He was going to be walking behind, his cane the only thing firmly in his hand as he limped and gingerly walked down the stairs. He hated it.

He swallowed thickly, trying to control himself. He could feel the anger simmering again along with sudden tears threatening to build and fall down. He knew his eyes must be overly glassy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cuddy check her watch, sigh, and get to her feet. She walked towards the podium placed stage-right in front of the crowd. The murmurs went silent as the Dean took her place behind it.

House watched her carefully and saw she was trembling. She looked out at the crowd before addressing them.

_12:00 PM_

"I would like to thank you all for coming today. It has been so incredibly difficult these past few days for all of us. Wilson was a genuinely good man and taken much too early from us," her voice broke somewhat, but she was able to regain her composure. "I knew James Wilson for almost two decades. I had hired him later off of a recommendation from one of the other doctors."

_As if they didn't know which doctor_, House thought. A few people in the crowd chuckled.

"Meeting Wilson that first time was a shock, to say the least," she smiled sadly. "I had pictured James Wilson to be arrogant, mouthy and disrespectful. Nothing was further from the truth. He was compassionate. He was brilliant and humble. When the position in Oncology opened, he was the first person I thought of and wanted. I knew I had struck gold when he accepted."

A few people chuckled again. House saw several people nod their heads in agreement to Cuddy's words.

"But Wilson was more than an employee to me; he was a very good friend. When I was frustrated and stressed out, he would buy me coffee and made me take a break for at least five minutes. He helped me with my adoption. He was my liaison with certain individuals."

She gave the briefest of glances to him and he couldn't help but give her a little smirk in return due to its truth. The crowd laughed softly behind them.

"I could go on, but judging by the number of people here, we know how good a man he was. Wilson was the best of men. And…" she paused for a moment. "And I w-will always m-miss him."

The crowd was quiet. Their agreement hung in the air. Everyone in that room could attest to the fact that Wilson had been a good man. Cuddy composed herself and took a deep breath.

"We all knew James Wilson, but not as much as his best friend. Doctor House?"

Her grey eyes made it clear it was his turn at the podium. He stood up as steadily as he could and walked straight up. He was not going to give the people staring at him any more fuel for the fire about to erupt. Cuddy gave him a weak nod as she passed by. He felt her hand brush his arm, probably in a sign of comfort to him and for herself, but he ignored the gesture. He waited until she sat down before looking up into the sea of faces before him. His words were spoken clearly and without hesitance.

"James Wilson was a bastard."

He could feel the sudden tension begin like a light strike. Some people in front of him gave collective gasps. Cuddy's eyes went wide in horror and he could tell she was trying to think of a way to get him out of there before he uttered another word. He didn't give her the chance.

"Wilson was a bastard, but he was a good man," House continued. "He wasn't the angel everyone thought he was. He liked to drink. He gambled. He cheated on two of his three wives. He was a manipulative son of a bitch on top of everything. Hell, he was my enabler whenever he felt bored or thought he could manipulate me into doing 'the right thing.' He enjoyed all the stunts and pranks I pulled at the hospital. He had been my main audience."

He looked towards Cuddy and saw she had her gaze averted downward with a wary hand over her eyes. His fellows that he could spot had looks on their faces as if to say _This is so typical of House… _He took a deep breath.

"As Doctor Cuddy has said," the title felt odd on his tongue, "he was a good man. There was never a doctor who looked out for his patients better than he did. If anyone, even strangers, needed help, Wilson would have given them the shirt off his back. He saw the best in people and believed people could rise to become more than what they were."

He steeled himself. The next words already induced fear into his whole being.

"If he didn't believe in all that, he would have given up on me ages ago."

House could have heard a pin drop in the room. The words that flowed out of his mouth were some of the truest he had ever uttered.

"I first saw Wilson at a medical conference in New Orleans. He was a fresh-faced doctor who delivered his first presentation with such smugness it was almost sickening. He had a right to be smug. He was smart. He made one error, though. I found out what room he was in and went to head him off. I unfortunately didn't make it to him on time. I saw him entering the elevator with a manila envelope… It was from a Fairbanks Divorce Attorneys of Law. That night he started a bar fight—"

Sounds of disbelief came from some of the people in front of him.

"—and I was the one who bailed him out of jail. Out of three thousand people, he was the only one I wanted to speak to. He was always one of the only people I wanted to talk to."

He couldn't look up this time. That last statement had reminded him he had no one to confide in. No one cared. No one would push him to open up. No one would argue with him on morality and whether it existed or was made up by politicians preying on weaker-minded people. Everyone who he now was left with was done with him.

"James Wilson was a good man because he was able to reign in the bastard. He chose to be a better man. Choices are what it comes to when it matters."

He glanced up one last time. The sea of people held a myriad of emotions in their faces. He couldn't stand so many eyes on him. He couldn't deal with the vile sorrow and anger threatening to boil over in his person. He saw an exit next to the row of seats he had vacated earlier. He gripped his cane tightly and moved from the podium as quick as he could. Cuddy looked like she wanted to stop him, yet she held back. He could only imagine the look in his eyes that held her at bay. He pushed his way through the door and found himself into a hallway. He took a right turn, not knowing where he was going, but he found a door that led outside within a few minutes. The cool air hit his heated skin and caused him to shiver.

_1:15 PM _

He knew at this exact moment Cuddy was probably asking the crowd for several moments of silence as they watched the slideshow she had created of Wilson. Those who were chosen to be pallbearers were lining up next to the casket, ready to hoist it on their shoulders and walk the dead man to the hearse House was now staring at.

He didn't want to witness that. He couldn't. He couldn't stand there and watch his best friend lowered into the ground. Before he knew what he was doing, he was already in his car and pushing the keys into the ignition. He put the car in reverse and gunned it down the street.

His chest had tightened painfully and the tears were running in rivulets down his face. He started to gasp for breath with every sob. The car weaved through the early afternoon traffic. He didn't remember stopping at traffic lights or what streets he was on. He just saw he was suddenly parked in front of his complex, in his usual spot, fighting to keep calm.

In the recesses of his mind, he knew he was having a panic attack. He started to hyperventilate. His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. With herculean effort, he took a deep breath and held it, letting it out in a slow breath through his running nose. His heart thumped painfully against his rib cage. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy. He felt the mother of all headaches start to press on his cranium. He felt his body start to calm, even if his mind was still hysterical. He made it out of the car and into his apartment. One of the other residents saw him rushing up the stairs and asked him if he was okay. He ignored her and she didn't try to stop him.

Inside the darkened apartment, he suddenly was lost.

Did he reach for the Vicodin for the leg screaming in protest from the exertion it had endured?

Was the bottle the better option? Was oblivion in the grace of alcohol the right choice for such an occasion?

Sweat was beading on his forehead and his gait was rickety as he made his way into his kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the tap. He furiously drank it down and dropped the glass back into the sink. He vaguely heard it crack.

He threw himself onto his couch and leaned his throbbing head against the backrest. Looking at the clock on the mantle of his fireplace, he saw it was past two. They all would be at the cemetery by now. Was there a headstone or a plaque waiting? He didn't know.

His right hand unconsciously tightened on his leg. The pain was constant. He took refuge in it, letting the physical engulf the mental pain. He sat there, massaging his leg, letting his eyes slip closed, and imagined that this day had never happened.

_6:10 PM _

He jolted awake. Someone was knocking on his door.

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><p><strong>AN: I have to thank AdieAngel and Akemi1582 for beta-ing this chapter so well! This chapter had flowed right out of the keyboard, but it needed polishing up. I hope you, dear readers, can see all the effort of that and appreciate them as much as I do. I also have to thank Iane_Casey for reading over the roughest first part of this story and giving me her valuable input, also. I was evil and didn't let her read the second part. I'm almost finished writing the next chapter so we don't have to wait to see who's at the door... <strong>


	8. Ch 7 Unfamiliar

**AN: Thank you to the best betas in the world, AdieAngel and Akemi1852! I have been told this chapter requires a 'box of tissues' to get through so I give you fair warning. From here on out, dear readers, this will be more Huddy-centered than ever. Enjoy! **

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><p><em><strong>When we walked the streets together<strong>_

_**All the faces seemed to smile back **_

_**And now the pavements **_

_**Have nothing to offer **_

_**And all the faces seem to need a slap. **_

_**There's an unfamiliar grip **_

_**On an unfamiliar handkerchief**_

_**Attending to the tears on cheeks **_

_**I wouldn't notice **_

_**With you no matter how vicious the grief **_

_**Her expression was damp and crooked**_

_**Grabs onto my throat and won't let go. **_

"_**Standing Next to Me" by the Last Shadow Puppets **_

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><p>He should have ignored the knock. He recognized its dissonance from the echo as it rang in his silent, dark apartment. There was no reason for <em>her<em> to be here. He grimaced as he moved from his position on the couch. Sleeping for several hours, his neck had kinked and cramped. His back was hurting. His bones popped and cracked as he sat up. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood up. He teetered to the left, grabbing onto the couch arm to hold himself up. Both his legs and back were stiff.

The knock sounded again.

He reached the door a moment later and unlatched the lock. Cuddy was standing on the mat, looking towards the building's front door. He could tell she was thinking of walking out, walking away from that apartment door. She was still in her funeral attire with the addition of her black, long coat to ward off the chill he could feel wafting through the hallway.

She looked him up and down before speaking.

"Can I come in?"

He stepped closer to the threshold, blocking the entire entrance with his body.

"Why? What are you doing here, _Doctor_ Cuddy?"

She looked taken aback with the use of her title. Her mouth opened, but no sound issued from it. She closed it quickly before looking down towards her shoes.

"House, please. I need to talk to you."

"Not good enough."

He moved to shut the door. She blocked it quickly with a forearm braced against it and a strength that surprised him.

"Do you even know what cemetery _he's_ buried in?"

The coldness in her voice and the daggers she was throwing with her eyes made him waver. But he would not deal with her. Not today.

"I'll find out. Now get the hell away from my door."

"I can't believe you ran away **again**," she threw at him viciously. "I only wanted to see how you were but from looking at you, I guess you've been soaking at the bottom of a bottle or popping pills as if they'll run out of style."

She made a noise of disgust and stepped away from the door. She took two steps before his words stopped her.

"I haven't taken a pill in over a day. I haven't drunk anything either."

House stood on his front mat, glaring at her back. He refused to let her leave with her thinking she was right.

"I'm probably starting my withdrawal because I feel sick and nauseous already. Oh - My best friend died almost a week ago, too, so that's why I look _a bit_ down in the dumps… I forgot you couldn't deduce worth a shit."

If he weren't so pissed off, the look on her would have made him crack up with laughter. She looked stunned.

"You haven't taken anything?" She asked, her voice meek.

"I think I just said that," he snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I feel the urge to vomit."

He didn't have time to close the door as he limped towards his bathroom. His stomach had fully awakened and twisted in his gut. He vomited bile into the porcelain bowl and dry heaved for a good minute afterward. His sides hurt and sweat was building on his face and back. He took deep, steadying breaths until the nausea subsided. He flushed the contents.

"I'm sorry."

He flinched slightly. She was standing in the hallway. She was barefoot which would explain why he didn't hear the tap of her heels over his heaving.

"Get out of here, Cuddy," he croaked. His throat was raw. "You've made it clear you always think the worst of me. I don't have to put up with it."

"I'm not here to criticize you—"

"Really?" he interrupted. "What was that five minutes ago?"

"That was me being irrational over my friend's death and his best friend's reaction at the funeral," she said. "I was already pissed at you for that warped eulogy and for not going to the cemetery."

"I couldn't see him like that." He stood still, feeling ashamed for not going through with the whole funeral and angry at himself and Cuddy for pointing it out so frankly.

"I know."

Her face was clouded in sorrow. Her eyes were bright with the beginning of tears. He hated to see her cry. He turned his back to her and leaned over the sink. He turned on the cold-water tap and reached into the icy stream. He splashed his face liberally, letting the water cool his heated skin. He felt somewhat better. House knew he would gradually become sicker as the drugs and alcohol left his body. It would hurt.

He reached for the towel and dried his face.

"Why'd you shave?"

"Why are you still here?"

"I asked first."

"Touché. Wilson would have taken it as a gesture of… respect. Why are you still here?"

She sighed. "I want to see how you're doing. You'll need someone to help you through detox and—"

"You're not going to help me."

"You can't do this alone, House. I could—"

"You can't! You couldn't!" he spit at her. "Why the sudden need to be around me, huh? I only just told you about the detox. I hadn't seen you for over a week until you showed up in my hotel room and threw out that hooker. Before Wilson died—when _you_ broke up with me—you told me you couldn't do this anymore. You told me you can't handle me! What's changed?"

"EVERYTHING! Damn you!"

Her yell echoed throughout the apartment. Her teeth were almost bared and her fists were clenched at her sides. She huffed in frustration.

"I—I can't bear the fact that I'm part of the reason why he's gone…" A tear ran down her cheek. "Wilson came to see me, too, that night. He begged me to go talk to you instead—if I had gone, if I had listened to him—"

"We don't know what would have happened," he finished. "Don't think for a second you should have been the one in the car—the one to die. Wilson shouldn't have died either."

She nodded her lip trembling. He reached over to the roll of toilet paper and pulled off a long strip.

"It's no one's fault. If anything, he was there for me… Get that perverse guilt of yours under control," he growled as he handed her the paper. "Not everything in the world revolves around you."

"The same can be said to you, too."

He tilted his head slightly, looking at her tear-stained, flushed face. He had been right about the water-proof mascara.

"You never answered my question."

Cuddy practically growled in annoyance or frustration. He couldn't tell which emotion was more prevalent. She took the makeshift tissue and tabbed her eyes and cheeks. She sniffled loudly before crumbling the paper and throwing it into the wastebasket.

"Everyone there… every person at the funeral knew Wilson. But they didn't _know_ him like you and I did. The shock of your eulogy showed me that. Not even Bonnie or Sam knew some of the things you mentioned. I—you left me there to watch, alone."

"You're not my problem anymore."

"I wish I hadn't been a _problem_ in the first place. I knew I wasn't easy—"

"You sure about that?"

He felt a spark of something when he saw her smirk and huff in annoyance.

"—to live or be with. I tried—"

"Stop."

Her mouth snapped shut at the sharp command. The tears had stopped but her eyes were still glassy. He grit his teeth and steeled himself for his next words.

"Don't say you _tried_…" His voice was almost a whisper. "You '_put up with'_ would be a more accurate assessment of our relationship. You didn't _try_ one God damned time when it got tough. I didn't give you countless reasons to leave me—I gave you one. And you ran with it instead of—"

"I was in the hospital, thinking I was dying and you were taking Vicodin! You bastard, don't tell me I overreacted to that!" She snarled at him.

"I took one! To be with you! In hindsight, yes, I was a fucking coward. But how would you react if the person you loved were dying before your very eyes; especially if you had been an addict in the first place? I had no one to turn to because the one I had always relied on, TURNED HIS BACK ON ME!"

He hadn't realized how angry he still was for that incident. He hadn't realized how bitter he was for Wilson not stepping in and helping him, not stepping next to him as they trekked to Cuddy's hospital room. He never could have done that alone. He hadn't done it alone, only his companion had been in his system instead of at his side. He was a coward through and through when it came to pain. Yet he had thought he could manage it with his only true friend at his side… how wrong he had been.

The bathroom was becoming cramped with the anger and tension in the air. He couldn't stand watching her stand in front of him, trying to decide what he had said was true or not. It wouldn't change anything anyway.

"I think you should leave," he murmured, looking over her shoulder and towards the front door.

She nodded. Turning her back to him, she walked down the hallway.

"I know how you feel about him… he never visited me either. He didn't do anything those days," she laughed darkly. "Only Chase showed up from time to time and tried to quote scripture. He was at least a little comforting."

They were standing by the door now. With her back still to him and her hand on the door knob, she spoke as she slipped her heels back onto her feet.

"I really came over here because I didn't want to be alone."

He almost didn't hear her she had spoken so softly. She sounded so dejected, so downtrodden and sorrowful that he couldn't stop his next actions even if he had wanted to. He knew those feelings. He knew the type of despair she was feeling. He grabbed her upper arm and stopped her from exiting the apartment. Cuddy let herself be stopped. Her eyes were swollen and so forlorn.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. He stared as her eyes widened in astonishment. She gave a small nod of acknowledgement and did not try to pull out of his grip. He let her arm go and glanced towards the piano. "You shouldn't drive so upset. You can stay here or—or I'll call you a cab. We don't need anymore accidents."

She nodded again, seemingly unable to speak.

"On two conditions."

"Okay," she croaked, an eyebrow rose in inquiry. "What are they?"

"You're sleeping on the couch first. I can't right now…" he trailed off. Clearing his throat, he finished. "And tomorrow morning you're driving me to Mayfield."

The last words spoken made her expression more open than ever. She was surprised to hear the name of that hospital again. Her mouth had opened slightly as if deciding to speak or not. He could finally read all the emotions crossing over her face; this was a Cuddy he was used to seeing.

"Are you sure you want to check yourself back in? They'll revoke your license, stop your practice—"

"I'm sure," he answered. "They'll look after me while I detox. I shouldn't be there more than two weeks."

He hoped he wouldn't be there more than two weeks. The first week would be hell with the Vicodin leaving his system and causing havoc with his chemical balances. He would be in excruciating pain for most of the time. The second week he hoped he would be over the worst and stable. He only cared about being able to walk without the pharmaceutical aid; that was it. He didn't care about eliminating the pain. He didn't want to be tethered to that fear any longer. He could and would cope. It was better than risking his sanity again. He knew recidivism among drug addicts was very high so Nolan wouldn't be that surprised to see him… maybe at the amount of time it did take him to relapse, but they would discuss that in length. He wanted to groan at that thought.

He snapped out of his thoughts when he felt her put her hand on his chest. She was closer now, less than half a foot away from him. She held her right hand over his heart.

"If it means anything, I'm sorry, too," she quietly spoke to his chest. "Rachel's with Julia for the weekend so I can drive you up there."

He nodded and stepped away, instantly missing the warmth of her hand. He knew this was a bad idea. He knew having Cuddy here only hurt him more, her presence reminding him of what he could never have again. He hated the awkwardness the two of them had between. He hated it with all the passion he could muster. He had thought the awkwardness after their first kiss in twenty years was bad, but it had been the size of a needlepoint compared to the gaping chasm now present in the apartment.

He muttered something about linen and blankets as he left her standing there. He thought he heard her reply 'okay' but he was already too lost in his own thoughts. If he was completely honest, she was the only person he wanted to see, the only person who he would allow in his apartment during this awful time. He was using her for his own comfort. Thinking of her and of their problems, kept his mind off of… _him_. And his absence.

When he returned she had taken off her coat and removed her shoes again. She had folded her jacket over the back of the couch and laid her shoes underneath the coffee table. _So I don't trip you_, she had told him once. He dropped the bedding onto the couch and, glancing at her one last time, walked back to the solace of his room.

An hour had passed from when he woke up on the couch. His suit was wrinkled and his tie felt too tight. He made sure both doors to his room were closed when he entered. He didn't bother locking them. He pulled off the tie and stripped out of his shirt and other formal wear, leaving them on the floor. They were going to be dry-cleaned so there was no need to hang them again. He pulled on his pajama bottoms to ward the cold away from his leg. His stomach felt sore from his earlier issue. He felt the exhaustion of the day creep up on him. He climbed into bed, letting sleep wash over him and oblivion embrace him in its mindlessness.

* * *

><p>"<em>House." <em>

_He burrowed deeper into the warmth of his sheets. That voice could go to Hell. He was tired from not sleeping the night before and—" _

"_House." _

_His body froze once recognition kicked in. He suddenly knew what Scrooge had felt like when the ghost of Jacob Marley called out to him in his Spartan room. The abject horror and disbelief ate at him. _

"_House." _

_He couldn't move. He refused to open his eyes. He didn't want to verify the apparition, specter or whatever the hell was in his room. In no rational part of the universe was this possible. He didn't want to view the gruesomeness his mind was already imagining. _

"_House… how could you?" _

_The voice was closer now. His muscles were tensed and he could feel the adrenaline start to pump through his body. Fight or flight. Flight was winning this battle though he knew he could never outrun it, him. He couldn't think of what was speaking to him even though he knew the voice. Was he an 'it' now that he was dead? _

"_House." _

_He tightened his grip on the sheet around him. _

"_House… House…. House." _

_He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder and he lunged forward. _

* * *

><p>It took fifteen seconds for him to fully wake up. Another ten made him realize he really was holding onto a dark figure, his grip around their forearms strong as he held them in place in their sitting position on the bed. Forty-five seconds after waking up he knew his surroundings and that he was holding Cuddy away from his person.<p>

"House, please, you're hurting me," she said out of the darkness.

He let go of her as quickly as possible, moving towards the center of the bed farthest from her. He was sweaty. The air chilled his skin and made him shiver.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked hoarsely.

His bedside lamp flared to life. He squinted against the sudden blinding light. His head didn't appreciate it. He felt his stomach roll but with nothing in it, he was able to let it pass. She was wearing only her black camisole and skirt. Her hair was a little frizzed and wild from sleep.

"I heard you calling out. You were having a nightmare."

She was rubbing her arms where he had gripped her. Guilt seeped into his racing thoughts.

"I'm sorry," he said, watching the movement of her hand. Her skin was red from his hands. "I thought—you were right. I was having a nightmare," he admitted.

She nodded once. "Are you okay?"

He knew he looked worse than earlier. He could see it by the look in her eyes and the way she studied him clinically that she wanted to know more.

"Yeah, just a bit out of sorts. It'll pass. You should go back to sleep."

When all else felt awkward, deflect. Her face fell, but she stood up and turned off the light. In the darkness of the room, it was easier to relax. The false sense of security it gave him made his guard lower as he grimaced against a cramp in his leg. He couldn't stop the whimper that left him. He felt the bed dip again, this time closer to him.

"You're such a liar," she said quietly. "You look like you're about to pass out from the pain alone or maybe even have a heart attack."

He felt the coolness of her palm against his face and he gasped as it felt like all his nerve endings flared at the contact. Her hand moved down to his carotid artery and pressed two fingers into his throat. He could hear the soft breaths she was taking.

"Your pulse is thready and way too fast. You're going to stroke out if you keep ignoring this."

She had her Dean of Medicine voice in full use.

"I'm still wired from the nightmare. That's all," he countered. "I'll be fine in a few minutes."

"You would have calmed down by now if it had been a nightmare."

"It wasn't any nightmare," he said bluntly.

Her hand had moved away from his throat but came to rest at his wrist, keeping time with the pulse there and listening to him at the same time. He didn't want her to keep tabs on him. He took her hand in his and saw her tense.

"I'm fine."

He couldn't tell if his palm or hers was sweatier.

"House, are you sure about tomorrow? Um, later today?" she said after seeing the time on his clock. The bright red numbers were announcing that it was well after midnight.

"I'm not doing this for you," he growled impatiently.

He hated pity. Pity was useless. Pity implied the person doing the pitying was superior in a way and the person pitied was beneath them. It made him feel transparent, vulnerable.

"I know," she said. "I'm glad. I'm thinking of—the board won't be as lenient as they were the last time with holding your position. In this economy, they'll use it as an excuse to dissolve your department and get rid of you once and for all. With Wilson gone, they already feel like they've lost the last check they had on you."

Of course, he had already thought about that. Being fired or forced to resign was always at the back of his mind. Even with his past year's 'good' behavior, he hadn't endeared himself to any of the members. His work had suffered and he had done stupid stunts in order to still be a doctor and be the man Cuddy had needed him to be. He failed at the latter and became 'normal' with the former. His passion for the puzzles had diminished and he hardly recognized the doctor in his place. All of that was going to change when he returned.

"I have more medical leave I can use," he started. "They still can't fire me due to my tenure and my contract's not up until next year. They can force me to resign, but I'll take all my retirement, move, and find a new place to practice. Or retire and consult. There's nothing holding me here anyway."

He felt her fingers tighten on his hand. She rubbed her thumb against his palm before pulling away.

"I see you already have it all planned out." She rose from the bed, distancing herself from him. He could tell she didn't want to hear anymore. She didn't turn back to him. "I'll be ready tomorrow morning."

And she left. He watched her dark form walk out of the room, shutting the door behind her. He took a deep breath. His heart had calmed down with the adrenaline leaving his system. His head ached and his leg was warning him in sharp pangs to move gently. He lay down again, holding the pillow close and burrowing into its softness.

He hated Lisa Cuddy the most when she gave up. He hated how one of the strongest women he knew let herself be dragged into the ground. He hated how passive aggressive [_more passive than aggressive, he thought_] she became with people and situations that really mattered. He hated how she didn't even defend herself to his ornery fellows. She was their boss and she let them walk all over her! She was doing the same thing now. She was letting him go without any fight. She wasn't honest with herself and it killed him seeing her act like that. Lisa Cuddy was not weak.

The Lisa Cuddy he knew would make men tremble at her feet and eat fellows for breakfast. She would disregard games and go straight for what she wanted. She knew a guy who knew a guy who would break your leg just for insulting her or if you reneged on a bet. That woman oozed confidence and sexuality in equal parts and never apologized if you felt uncomfortable. She wasn't self-righteous but she did seek revenge, rightfully so.

He didn't know the woman who walked out of the room.

And that made him both furious and more alone than ever.

* * *

><p>He woke up shivering. The room felt stuffy. He took a quick shower, threw on jeans and a t-shirt and took one long glimpse into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and more hangdog than ever. The stubble was growing back along his jaw and chin. He had a nice five-o'clock shadow growing in. It was only nine o'clock when he walked back into the living room.<p>

Cuddy was still asleep. Her hair was in her face and she was curled around the pillow she borrowed instead of on it. The blanket was tucked all around her. He moved softly so as not to wake her up. The bags he could see under her eyes let him know she needed the sleep. He brewed coffee and started breakfast. Eating was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew he needed to eat something.

He scrambled eggs and made toast. He put cream and sugar next to the coffee pot. He heard her moan fitfully before he saw her stir from sleep. Her left hand moved all the hair out of her face as she sat up. She placed both elbows on her knees and kept her head in her hands.

"I have coffee ready. You look like you need it."

She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, but she shook her head affirmatively and stood up stiffly from the couch. She walked past him with nary a glance and filled the cup he left out for her with coffee and cream. She hardly used sugar. He had sat down with a plate and his coffee at the small table nook he had. She inhaled the scent of the coffee and visibly perked up.

"Since you're driving, I made breakfast. Nothing fancy," he uttered.

"Thanks," she replied and made a dish for herself.

The morning felt surreal to him. They ate in silence. He couldn't stop thinking about the man who should have been here instead. The cavern in his chest was raw and seeping. _One day at a time_, he told himself. The world only seemed ending because he lost the two most important people in his life. He would move on and try something else. There was nothing else for it.

He excused himself and went to pack what he would need for his stay at Mayfield.

* * *

><p>The hour drive seemed to last forever. The radio droned on throughout the hour with neither occupant of the vehicle listening to a single word broadcast. He only saw Cuddy peek at him once when Mayfield loomed over the horizon. The building was still stark grey and ominous. The trees lining the drive were bare and thin. Cuddy parked her Lexus at the front and got out quickly. He thought she would drop him off. He carefully stepped out, his leg protesting every movement, and removed his suitcase from her trunk. He stepped back onto the sidewalk, finally giving her his full attention. Her face was long and shadowed in the morning light.<p>

"I'm glad you're doing this, House." She spoke to her feet instead of to him. He stepped closer, not letting her move away. He could see the weariness and discomfort wafting off of her.

"Thank you, for driving. I'll call you to see if I still work for you in a couple weeks," he said.

He wasn't ready for her to embrace him. He stood stiffly as she hugged him close, her arms thrown around his neck and forcing him to bend towards her. He had missed this feeling fiercely. He dropped the suitcase in his hand and wrapped his arms around her.

"You'll have a job if I have to threaten every board member with bodily harm," she said, her voice muffled in the crook of his neck. "I wish you didn't have to do this."

"Thanks," he said into her ear. "I have to, Cuddy. I can't go back to how I was before," he confessed. "We both know I have to do this."

He pulled away from her and picked up his suitcase again. She gave him one last look before she made her way back around to the driver's seat.

"Cuddy! Hold on a second!"

She had the car door open but she stepped into his view. "What, House?"

"What cemetery is he buried in?"

If she thought the question was odd, she didn't remark on it.

"Princeton Cemetery, off of Franklin and Greenview," she replied. She gave him a sad smile before entering the car. He didn't turn around when he heard the engine turn on. He heard the car drive away as he entered the hospital doors.

He was only going to be gone two weeks.


	9. Ch 8 A Memory

_**The best you ever had **_

_**Is just a memory. **_

_**And those dreams, **_

_**Weren't as daft as they seem, my love,**_

_**When you dreamt them up. **_

_**-"Fluorescent Adolescent" by the Arctic Monkeys **_

* * *

><p>The mud squelched under his feet as he walked through the grass. His cane was grasped tightly in his right hand because of the slippery and muddy ground. It rained yesterday. The day was still cold and the clouds were still overhead. The whole scenery could have been from a Conan Doyle novel: dark shadows spread all over the ground, ominous gray nimbuses, and the statues adding to that overall gothic feel. He needed the baying of the hounds to sound to really feel like he had stepped out into Baskerville.<p>

This was Princeton on a _good_ winter day. He had experience with bad days. His leg was a better indicator of the weather than the meteorologists on the news. It was stiff and uncooperative on this type of terrain, but he carefully walked on with the early afternoon dreary sun to guide him. Lush oaks and other fauna made the scene cheerier than it was.

Nothing should be cheery about a graveyard.

House soldiered on, knowing his destination was in front of him. As he walked closer to the lone headstone in the private corner of the cemetery, he felt a chill run up his spine. The grass here had grown in during his absence and the earth had settled. _Two_ months was more than enough time for a grave to blend in with its surroundings. The headstone was white marble. The lettering on it proclaimed _James Evan Wilson_. A sentence was underneath his name but it was generic, with the usual "Here lies a beloved son, etc., etc.," and dates of birth and death that House didn't bother continuing to read. He didn't have to read anything new about Wilson because he knew it all. He bent gingerly over the stone and placed two silver dollars on it.

"For the ferryman," House said with a sad smile. Wilson would have laughed at that.

He was surprised not to see any flowers by the grave. He expected to see rotted lilies or blackened roses from the lazy gamekeeper not doing his job. The stone was clean and the grass surrounding it was neatly trimmed. In death, the oncologist was still orderly. He felt a pang in his chest.

His best friend had ceased to exist two months ago. Two long months without his sidekick and confidant.

He refused to think or say the '_d'_ word. It only brought back that awful week. His memory was clearer than ever with no drugs or alcohol in his system. He had been waylaid with the detox though. His '_two weeks_' that he had told Cuddy was fantastical compared to the recovery he endured. On his first day, he met with Nolan again and confessed like a penitent sinner that he had fallen off the wagon. He spent a week in isolation, screaming and pounding on any surface he could reach to ignore the pain. Orderlies had strapped him down to the bed. The second week he had been allowed to move around again. He spent it hunched over, walking like a true cripple, sick with nausea and other flu-like symptoms. He wanted to die. Half the time he was stuck in a wheelchair after he took a dive headfirst onto the floor; it was all his pride could take. The first month passed with him sore and aching.

The second month began with him starting his treatment again. He only mentioned _her_ and spoke of Wilson once. Nolan had known about his best friend and attributed the sudden binge to the emptiness House felt. House did not correct that assumption. The doctors in the white coats were not going to make him stay longer. He had signed his release papers that morning and hailed a taxi, telling the cabbie to drive as 'fucking fast as possible before the quacks capture me again.' He ended up taking the bus home.

He was home for probably ten minutes before he grabbed his helmet and drove to the cemetery. It took him less than five minutes to arrive. Walking through the grounds had been another matter entirely. Looking around he saw only the lazy gamekeeper idly raking up leaves on the other side of the vast grounds. It was still early in the afternoon so many people would probably not be here on a Tuesday. The clouds overhead almost guaranteed he would be alone until they cleared away. Only fools walked through cemeteries in the rain.

The quiet felt peaceful. It soothed his nerves like nothing had for the past two months. Living with mental patients and other addicts was a noisy affair. People were up at all hours of the night. It was worse than trying to sleep on rotation at the hospital. The footsteps of orderlies and nurses disturbed him. He was able to get a room by himself this time so it was marginally better. The rustle of leaves brought him back out of his thoughts. The breeze was cold and made him zip up his jacket. He had missed the summer. "_Turns_ around the grounds" as he called them at Mayfield were not an ideal vacation. But he was better.

"I'm clean," he spoke to the air. "Well, again."

He could picture the wry smile forming on Wilson's face. The man would have sat back, pulled his arms up and cupped the back of his head in a relaxed and teasing pose. The _'I-told-you-so'_ look plastered on his face. It had been tough. It was still tough. His leg hurt and throbbed but he didn't focus or obsess on it. He was in pain, yes, but he could manage. It was his norm. It hadn't been his choice to suffer continuously but he had to deal. As much as he hated it, it was out of his control.

His physical pain was about the only thing he could compartmentalize and keep constant. Inside the hospital he hadn't realized how much he wanted to visit his best friend. He hadn't known the hurt and sorrow coursing through him was lasting. Each day he would do or say something and think about when he would tell Wilson, think that Wilson would have laughed his ass off at a remark, think that Wilson was waiting for him in the drive, ready to go home and crack open a beer or two. It was made worse when he thought of stuff Cuddy would have liked. He would smell the perfume off a nurse or female doctor and think of her and what she might be doing. Two months was a long time for her to be alone. He never finished that line of thought.

So he stood, staring at the headstone. It was a poor excuse for comfort and he felt more alone standing there. The total impact of what had happened felt like a punch to his chest, the wind knocked out of his lungs.

There were not going to be anymore pranks around the hospital; no more lunches in the morgue; no more gossip between colleagues; no more monster truck Friday nights, or L Word marathons; no partner in crime and mystery; no one to save his ass when he got into trouble at PPTH. He doubted Cuddy would cover for him anymore. She had better and more important things to focus on, her daughter most of all.

He wouldn't have anywhere to crash or anyone to call and harass when he was miserable. He didn't have those kinds of friends. He _had_ had that friend.

House stood there for a moment more, his eyes sweeping over every letter on the stone and the two coins he had dropped. He felt every one of his fifty-one years weigh down on him. His face was solemn.

"I'll be back," he whispered to the ground. He would be. At least once.

He walked away. The grass was still wet and slippery. It was hell on his leg and hips from almost sliding and tripping. He sighed in relief when he reached the sidewalk. His bike stood by itself in the lot. He limped over and snapped his cane into its holder. He quickly straddled the bike and put on his helmet. He had to find out if he still had a job.

* * *

><p>Because it was after one o'clock on a weekday, the hospital was packed and in full swing. Patients were walking in and out of the clear front doors, hurrying inside or slowly leaving by wheel chair. The receptionist at the front desk recognized him immediately and paled at seeing him. He smirked to himself and held in the laughter that bubbled up from his chest. He walked past her and into the clinic. There was standing-room only by the looks of it. Chase was the first doctor he saw. The younger man had grown his hair out again, not as long as before, but still <em>pretty<em>. He didn't look tired or harassed but rather calm. He smiled when patients approached him and charmed the nurses into helping him out. From the looks of it, House thought, he was back in the game. The Aussie finally noticed him lingering by the front doors and held a genuine smile for the older doctor.

"House!"

The nurses who heard the name stilled for a moment before glancing towards him, some craning their necks to see him better. He felt self-conscious standing there so he limped over to Chase. He didn't like being the center of attention in a room filled with clinic patients.

"You've been gone a while," the young man spoke.

"I'm glad you're observant as ever," House replied. "Where's the rest of the team?"

"Thirteen's down in the ER, Foreman's been working with Richardson, the neurosurgeon, and Taub has been with Hurani. We've only had about two cases that we had to work together in Diagnostics, but otherwise, we've all been apart. It's slow around here without you."

"So we still have a Diagnostics department?" he clarified. His tried to keep the worry and hesitance out of his voice. It looked like Chase hadn't noticed.

"Yep," Chase said, popping the 'p' with glee. "Cuddy had a huge showdown with that asshole Thompson. He wanted to shut down the department and the clinic. She was magnificent during that meeting. She fought for every one of us."

"Er... she's in her office if you want to speak with her," Chase supplied.

Sure enough, he craned his neck around the young man and saw the woman who stayed in his thoughts sporadically over the past weeks was behind her desk, head down, hair covering her face as she wrote. She looked good. Without saying another word, he shoved past Chase and approached the door. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before swiftly gripping the handle and throwing the door wide open. No subtlety was necessary or needed, he thought. Cuddy flinched and marked the paper she was writing on with a large slash across the bottom. Her brows knit together and her face scrunched together in anger. He could tell an angry tirade was going to burst from her lips, but once she recognized him, she held back. The anger visibly left her and a mixture of surprise and confusion was left.

"House," she said.

He could tell she was warring with herself on what to do. The awkwardness returned and he did his best to ignore the nagging little voice telling him it looked like Cuddy wanted to jump up into his arms. He walked two steps to the chairs in front of her desk and stood with both hands holding the back of it.

"I've heard I still I have a job here," he said, skipping a greeting.

"You do, if you can handle it."

"The shrinks told me I can and _I_ know I can so I think that's settled."

She relaxed more, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

"What about your license?"

"The board suspended it this time since I wasn't having hallucinations. I... convinced them it was a one-time thing. I think the desperation dripping off of me helped. Nolan had them reinstate it before I left. I'm all set."

"Good," she replied. "Start tomorrow. Lord knows we need a day to prepare for your madness."

"I think I'll go up to my office now," he disagreed. "I'm bored which means I'll be looking for trouble and mischief so in order to avoid that and more boredom I'll see what those morons left for me."

They stared at one another for a moment. The awkwardness had left them but it was still odd. Cuddy looked like she wanted to argue.

"Okay," she finally sighed. "We definitely don't want you being tempted again, God forbid."

The way she had said that, hinted at a bit of anger and remorse, but not enough for him to latch on to. The sarcasm was prevalent and he smirked.

"Now get out of my office, House, I'm busy."

They exchanged one last look before she turned back to her paperwork. He limped out, thinking that had not been a bad meeting at all.

* * *

><p>He stepped off the elevator and walked down the hall to his office, immediately ignoring the office door to his left. He noticed how dark it was. He moved to push the door to his inner office open but it didn't budge. He searched through his pockets for his keys and promptly slipped the long jagged silver one into the keyhole. Opening the door, he reared back. It was musty. He coughed and limped in, braving the stale air. He unlocked and opened the door to his balcony. A thick stream of light pieced the darkness and a gust of fresh air made him feel better. He reached for the blinds and opened them wide. The office was covered in white plastic sheets. He could see the dust that had settled on top of each item of furniture. He pulled the sheet from off his desk, coughing again as the dust reached his nose. He threw the plastic down on the floor and left it there. Lou would clean up after him like always. His relics and toys were exactly as he left them. The computer burst into life now that the sensor below his desk was not blocked.<p>

He limped around the office and pulled off the rest of the plastic and threw it all outside into the hallway. Nurses threw him dirty looks as a cloud of dust was clearly visible as the plastic settled on the ground. He didn't enter the outer office. His fellows would get the honor of cleaning that room. Looking around the now brightly sunlit room, he felt the first moment of calm in a hectic day.

* * *

><p>Taub was the first fellow to peer into his office while trying not to catch his attention. The nurse who had stopped him five feet from the office door and practically shrieked his name ruined the stealth. Without saying hello, he stopped the younger man from speaking.<p>

"Since you're the first sacrificial lamb brought to slaughter, you get to start cleaning the other room. Get," he barked out.

The short man shut his mouth, nodded, and went into the other room. House turned to his computer and pulled up his Princeton email account. He pretended to read through an obvious idiotic plea for his help. Thirteen walked in next, only sparing him a glance and a smile before helping Taub. He gave her the smallest of smirks and went back to falsely ignoring them. He was surprised to hear them not speaking about him, but wondering about the next potential case. He knew they were starved for the rush of a good case.

He wanted to laugh at the evident sparkle in Chase's eyes as he walked in with Foreman following. The neurologist was still in an immaculate suit and tie, sparing House the briefest of looks before parking his rear at one end of the now clear and clean differential table. Facing his computer screen again, House wanted to laugh at the obvious arrogance of the man who desperately wanted to be a leader. He heard the coffee maker purr to life and minutes later he smelled the lovely acrid scent of it. Thirteen had made it judging by the quality. The other fellows were hopeless when it came to the simple machine.

"House! Get your ass in here, we have a few cases for you to choose from," Foreman yelled through the glass wall. House clicked off the email site and stood up. An intense rush of what could almost be happiness swept through him at the thought of a puzzle, of a mystery only he would be able to solve. He limped out of his office, throwing open the door.

"What kind of cases do you, morons, have for me this time?" His grin was sharper than a shark's.

* * *

><p>The evening had fallen and he was exhausted. The case he had chosen was interesting, of course, and kept his mind racing with all the possible diagnoses. He had been reading over the file once again, his glasses low on his nose, when he first caught sight of Cuddy. She was lingering at the nurse's station, fiddling and shuffling papers in a manila folder. He looked down immediately, pretending he hadn't seen her, when she looked up. She was gaging him. He knew she was debating whether to check up on him or be satisfied with how he looked at the moment. He couldn't stop the little smirk that appeared when he heard the click of heels approaching him. She would never be satisfied with the unknown.<p>

Or more specifically, that which she could not control, he reminded himself.

He heard the soft sound of the glass door swinging open. The carpet in his office muffled her steps but he could tell she was waiting for him to speak first. He kept reading, adding notes in the margins of the files and listened to her breathing.

"Your patient is doing well," she spoke softly.

"If by well you mean he's dying slower, then, yes, I agree," he answered. He finally pushed aside the case file and leaned back into his chair. She was in her lab coat. The tailored coat had disappeared when she was extremely busy, but in times of nostalgia, he knew, she donned the white item and billowed around the hospital. It helped remind her that she was still a doctor though he loved to tell her otherwise. Her clothes confused him a bit. The higher collar was usually a warning that she was pissed at him, but this wasn't "closed-off" high. It was conservative which was anything but her. The skirt was looser, too. She was still drop-dead gorgeous, but sexy in a whole new way than he'd seen her.

She huffed his comment away.

"I'm glad you're back, and better."

"I'm glad you stood up to those assholes for me to be back. Did I say thank you yet?"

She looked genuinely pleased with herself. He saw that the flicker of pride in her grey orbs as she sat down regally in the chair in front of him, crossing her legs.

"You haven't, but I'll take that."

"Chase said you were 'magnificent.'"

"He did? I could have sworn he called me a bitch after I told him to move his ass to the clinic."

He smiled at that knowing how much each fellow hated the clinic. He didn't feel the tension between them as he had earlier. She was relaxed. He didn't feel anxious seeing her. He still felt the heaviness of their past relationship pressing down on his chest but it had eased up. He was going to ignore it if she was. He was fine if she was.

"Do you know what's wrong with your patient?" She sat up straighter.

"Nope. He's being an idiot and hiding something. I have Tiny breaking into his place with my Homie and Pretty and Prettier-boy watching over the patient. Most likely he poisoned himself accidently. While doing something extremely dangerous and stupid."

He felt the tension come roaring back when she studied him, her eyes roaming over his face and person. He watched as she glanced quickly down at his desk before speaking.

"You're still the same," she muttered.

"If you want to think so," he answered snidely. He didn't like how she had uttered that. It felt like a sharp insult.

"No, I didn't mean it that way," she amended. "I meant you're still you. Without the haze of Vicodin or alcohol."

"Oh," he said quietly.

"There's that spark back when you're intrigued by a puzzle, that frantic energy that's infectious when you're working on a case. It's refreshing."

"You sound like you missed me," he accused with a teasing smile.

"I did." The serious in her voice made him reassess the situation. It was too close to familiar territory. He cleared his throat.

"You won't for long once I start demanding procedures I need done to my patient."

He tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters. He almost sighed audibly in relief when Foreman walked out of the elevator.

"Go home to your ball and chain. The real doctors need to work late," House told her with a smirk.

She threw him a dirty look, always taking offense when he spoke of Rachel that way, and stood up.

"It's good having you back, House."

Foreman held the door open for her as she left. He half-paid attention to the man spouting out different items he and Taub had found at the patient's home and office and watched Cuddy walk towards the elevator. She stood with her back to _his_ office as she waited for the doors to open. She never glanced to her right when she entered the lift.

He was glad he wasn't the only one missing someone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So sorry for the delay. I was only having a decadent time at Comic Con, trying to run into The Doctor and seeing all I could see. That's my 'excuse.' Cookies to whoever knows what I'm rambling about. Anyways, thank you to my lovely betas, AdieAngel and Akemi1852 for reading over this and sharing their input! This story wouldn't be half as well done without them! Thank you also, dear readers, for sticking with this. <strong>


	10. Ch 9 Properly

**AN: Hopefully you, dear readers, have caught on that the lyrics have slight foreshadowing in them… **

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>And there's affection to rent<strong>_

_**The age of the understatement**_

_**Before this attraction ferments, **_

_**Kiss me properly and pull me apart…" **_

"_**The Age of the Understatement" by the Last Shadow Puppets. **_

* * *

><p>It was... odd. No, not odd; odd implied acceptance. Weird. It was weird. Weird was a good word for what was between them. It was a cross between semi-acceptance and a reluctance to change their ways. They weren't walking on eggshells, per se. And they weren't <em>that<em> cautious around each other. His second day back at the hospital resulted in a shouting match that was still being referenced in most gossip circles. The shouting was normal. It was heated and he was found to be right in the end. But after the fight...

It had been weird.

They had glared at each other, breaths heavy and teeth gnashing. And then… her face went blank and she walked out of his office as if nothing had happened. It wasn't supposed to work that way. She was supposed to still be fuming and stomp out all haughty and high and mighty. Not staring blankly, as if in resignation. He didn't react to her non-reaction because he had been so confused. It was off-putting. It made him feel worse and question his reaction to her. Luckily, he had been right about the poison diagnosis, and discharged his patient three (long) days after the fight. He was surprised he could concentrate at all afterward.

He didn't want to feel guilty (_in his mind he spit the word out_) about doing something he and she had done countless times before without any residual emotions stopping them. It wasn't them. They didn't think out the consequences beforehand. In these cases they always had let passion and anger take their course and flow right through them. Not this stunted travesty of a fight.

So, it was weird.

If he walked by her in the halls, or saw her at the front desk, she would smile quickly, murmur a 'Hello, House,' and walk away. When the hell did they start addressing each other with such formality and distance? Were salutations going to be added into their daily lives now? What happened to sharp barbs and getting to the point? He startled himself when he greeted her just this morning with a 'hello.' It was repugnant. He felt like a pretentious asshole.

He hated it.

A week had passed since that night in his office when he had felt the first small inkling of hope that they would return to _'normal_.' Since that night, things hadn't been what he thought they would be. His obsessive-compulsive mind ran through different scenarios, from Cuddy thinking she had said too much (_probably_) to lying about what she had said to distance herself for her or his sake with regards to the Board.

The weirdness extended to his team as well. They would mention something Wilson-related and immediately shut down or change the subject with less finesse than a two year old playing with porcelain. Hell, he had seen Rachel speak better than his fellows. He thought he had trained his fellows better than that; awkwardness did not exist in the differential room. What should and needed to be said must be said regardless of feelings and emotions.

Deep down, he appreciated their thoughtfulness. He still was wary of speaking of his best friend. He couldn't remember the last time he had said the man's name. Every time he walked down the hallway towards the elevator he would purposely look to his left as he waited to go down. He didn't want to see the dark, empty office to his right. No one had said or mentioned what would happen to the office. There was an Interim Head of Oncology, but no process had begun to fill the position permanently. He didn't think Cuddy had anyone in mind.

He didn't know how he would deal with a new doctor staying in that office. He knew he would be fiercely annoyed with anyone who dare claim it. Thoughts of driving out the future occupant of the office flitted through his head. He smirked thinking how easy it would be to do such a thing and how pissed Cuddy would be.

He groaned and leaned back in his chair. Cuddy. When he was alone, like at the present moment, he would wonder about her. The men in white coats may have helped him out but he was still obsessive, especially when it came to knowledge and the people he cared about.

Try as he might not to, he cared for her. Seeing her again throughout the week had only pounded that into his head.

He knew all the gossip and troubles of his fellows and friends. _Friend_. Was that the category for Cuddy? Yes, his mind made up right away; he would count her as a friend for the moment. He didn't think he could bear it if she distanced herself more from him. He knew she was still single from the nurses' gossip. He knew she had changed her schedule to fit in with Rachel's preschool and went home even earlier than normal. The workaholic had been tamed by a three and a half year old.

It made him melancholy.

For several days, he watched her from his balcony as she rushed out while still stuffing documents into her briefcase. Every day by three o'clock she was out the door. No more nine-to-five's. One of the times he saw her in the past week, after the fight, she had only asked him how he was and walked off as if she were only speaking to someone like Foreman or, God forbid, Hourani. She was keeping up her guard and keeping her life private behind an iron curtain. He didn't know anything else. No one did. No one could explain what she did outside the hospital during his two-month absence.

He felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. Ultimately, he recognized how he felt. He was missing her and trying to deal with Wilson's absence as well. He was grieving for his best friend, alone. The grief was seeping into him gradually, leaking through his stony exterior and starting to drown him. He would ignore the thoughts and try to patch some of the leaks, but the grief and loneliness were tied with another, more hated emotion.

Boredom.

He was incredibly and mind-numbingly bored. Chase had been right; his cases were coming few and far between. He had even resorted to stalking the ER and clinic the past few days to see if he could dig up anything. He had been fruitless. There was nothing to take his mind off of the current circumstances.

He didn't want to be alone. He wanted his mind to stop racing with all the possible scenarios and 'what-ifs' that plagued him nightly. He needed answers. He needed to speak with Cuddy outside the hospital, away from the miasma of ghosts and mistakes.

It had to be something they had done together before dating and something that wouldn't be taken '_wrongly_.' An idea popped into his head and without thinking twice about the implications of such a request, he went in search of his boss.

* * *

><p>"A drink?" Cuddy asked incredulously.<p>

"Yeah... friendly, shoot-the-breeze-chat drink. No underhandedness or hidden agendas," he said. House was looking everywhere but at her. His skin felt heated, the embarrassment started to surface with each passing second. He had caught her alone at noon in her office. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Cuddy's secretary peeking at them.

"There has never been 'no-agenda' drinks between us, House," she said firmly. She shuffled papers around on her desk and continued to sign documents.

"Fine, I'll see you tomorrow," he grumbled and swallowed the remains of his pride and turned around. He had limped two steps when he heard soft, "House."

He didn't turn. This would be the last time he asked anything of her. He had needed the company of a friend, just a friend, and now he realized he didn't have any. Paying for his comfort tonight sounded marginally better, he thought sulkily.

"I'll meet you at Sherry's. I have to call Marina first."

He felt himself nodding. He hated this feeling. She pitied him. He was embarrassed and lonely and depressed, he inwardly admitted. She was only doing what was still natural; taking care of him.

They walked out into the parking lot at a quarter to five and didn't speak. She climbed into the Lexus and he hopped onto his bike. He would arrive five whole minutes before her and find a booth in the back of the room.

* * *

><p>From his vantage point, he watched her walk in. She scanned the room briefly before spotting his sulking figure. She squeezed herself between other patrons and pool-pushers to get to the table. She slid in, flipping her hair back and giving a great sigh of what he identified as relief. She looked tired, but not as much as she usually did. He was glad she accepted his offer. He could study her without feeling like he was stalking her from his balcony.<p>

The bar was crowded but not as noisy as it could have been for a Thursday Happy Hour night. People were sipping well drinks and relaxing, probably preparing themselves for their last day of work before the weekend. He knew he wasn't going to show up to work tomorrow if he didn't have a case.

"Before I get too drunk, I'm not coming in tomorrow," he said suddenly. He was glad he spoke up before she tried to initiate small talk.

"You're not supposed to drink very much, House," she frowned.

"I think I can slack off tonight."

She continued to glare at him when the waitress asked his order and he replied with a simple scotch. She ordered a Mai Tai, sticking to her usual overly fruity drinks. After a minute of her scowling at him, he spoke up.

"I'm only having the one scotch, Dragon Lady. You can stop with the furrows of smoke coming out of your nostrils."

She turned her glare towards the bar but he noticed the tiniest of smiles starting to pull at her lip.

"You're getting to be as bad as Wilson was," he mused.

Her eyes snapped to his, her mouth partially open at the mention. The waitress interrupted them again, placing the dark amber colored liquid in front of him and the bright red-bottomed/orange-topped drink in front of her. Cuddy closed her mouth and turned back to him after thanking the waitress.

"How so?" She asked.

"You're going to start to nag me on my health. Maybe start following me around the hospital and play my conscience. I'd like it if you wore _only_ that skirt while following me."

She laughed, heartily.

"If I thought that would work, I would have done that ages ago and maybe, _just maybe_, both Wilson and I could have gotten you in line before... everything."

He smirked and took a sip of his own drink. The smooth liquid felt like a drop of heaven on his tongue. The harshness of the alcohol was covered by the slightly smoky vanilla taste. He could imagine Old Spanish oaks being topped and gold ambrosia flowing freely into crystal decanters. Two months between drinks was a good record for him.

"House."

He looked up. Cuddy had spoken but he had not heard her.

"Sorry," he muttered. "What did you say?"

"Nothing yet. I just noticed that you weren't here."

"I haven't had a drink in two months. My taste buds are rejoicing." He took a hearty sip, letting the scotch settle on his tongue.

"Me, too. I think the last time I had a drink was when—when we went to that jazz club."

He mentally commended her for her millisecond stutter. She looked a little uncomfortable for a moment. He could mentally see her tugging on all her armor.

"That was a while ago." He kept his voice even and non-committal. That had been a fun night; a good memory in their flawed history. They both chose to not elaborate.

The bar was starting to fill up with people coming in for a last minute drink. Their silence was intruded upon by it and kept them from becoming too awkward again.

"Nolan kept me up to date on your treatment," she blurted out suddenly. She averted her eyes and was staring at the patrons seated along the wooden bar. "I was surprised I was changed to your primary physician and medical proxy," she added as if it were an apology. She sipped her drink with a nervous energy.

"I needed a new one," he said quietly. "It was between you and Foreman."

She laughed quietly, glancing at him. "Thanks for telling me."

"You're the only one I trust and who knows my history better than anyone else. I was joking about Foreman by the way..."

Her face became solemn.

"Wilson would have been proud of you, you know. He-"

"He's six feet under so I don't know what he would have felt," he snapped. "Don't try to make me better than I am, Cuddy. You, of all people, know I'm not."

He took a sip of his scotch and noticed the liquid was barely amber-colored anymore. His ice had mostly melted and had watered-down his drink considerably. Honestly, he didn't know why he became so touchy about hearing Wilson's name pass through her lips. It had put him on defense. He did not want to talk about him.

"I'm not," she replied with bite. "I'm only stating what I see."

"You should get your eyes fixed then. You're too young to be having problems now."

She sighed in annoyance. "Are you ever going to talk about Wilson, seriously?"

He could feel his heart speed up and his palms become sweaty. He hoped the sudden warmth in the room was due to the scotch and not his reaction to the question. Her eyes searched his face and she knew, _she knew!_, he wasn't ready to talk about his best friend. He took a deep breath.

"Someday. Not now." That was as honest an answer as he could give her.

"You mean not with me."

She looked at the bar again. He could see the hurt seeping into her face, her bottom lip protruding in a small pout, her eyes downcast. He moved his glass from side to side, playing with the condensation that had dripped onto the table. Ignoring her reaction, he murmured.

"We don't have that type of relationship anymore, Cuddy. You made sure of that," he said in resignation.

He knew he was being a bastard. He had asked her for the company and now he was pushing her away. He saw her sit back stiffly in her chair and reach for her drink one last time. She didn't bring it to her lips though. Her slender fingers curled along the high baller glass and lingered.

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing his voice out. "I don't want to talk about him. I'm a jerk when I feel cornered so... I'm sorry."

She was hardly looking at him but she nodded. He watched a single tear drop down onto her cheek but she wiped it away quickly.

"No, don't be. I'm being pushy again."

"You? Pushy? Never in a hundred years," he answered.

She smiled, probably the first real one of the week. He watched as the crow's feet around her eyes deepened and the barely-there laugh lines extend with the curl of her lips. His stomach jolted and his heart fluttered in his chest.

"Tell me about Thompson, and describe in detail how you handed him his own ass on a silver platter."

She laughed heartily, color returning to her face, her eyes shining. She spoke for the better part of an hour. This felt normal. She was sitting up, proud of the way she had manipulated the Board and put the asshole in his place. He loved watching her explain, in detail, her victory. This was the missing Dean of Medicine. He recognized the woman in front of him.

The waitress stopped at their table once more, asking them if they wanted last minute Happy Hour drinks. House ordered another round of drinks with Cuddy protesting in the background. She gave in easily though, starting her tale again at the point where she defended the clinic's necessity against the State's budget cuts. He wasn't too interested and frankly would have been pleased if the clinic closed, but to see her so animated again was worth it. The scotch had worked its way into his system, making him feel warm and falsely content in the moment. He didn't even mind the throbbing of his leg, which was becoming stiff from sitting so long. He shifted slightly.

"That asshole even had the nerve to try to use your team against you! He asked Chase into the room as his 'witness' but," she gave out a very unladylike bark of laughter, "Chase screwed him over! He thought Chase would kiss his ass for a promotion in the NICU but Chase said that without you, the hospital would start to get a higher mortality rate."

"For a minute I thought I was going to have to beat a rat with my cane, but I see I have trained him well."

"You did," she said with a hint of mischief, "All your lackeys tried to get out of clinic duty to laze about in the differential room. Foreman gave me a hundred and one excuses on why they needed to be up to date on the latest medical cases... He stopped talking once I pointed out that Taub's copy of the New Jersey Medical Journal was upside down."

They laughed, chuckling at the expense of his poor fellows. Her cheeks had turned steadily rosy correlating with the emptiness of her drink. Their waitress visited their table once more and with a grin, left to bring them both coffees.

"As a doctor, you know it won't sober you up."

"It won't, but it'll take me an hour to drink it. I should be okay by then," she smirked at him.

This felt right. Cuddy joking around with him, talking with him, sharing work stories with him, felt right. He only hoped after he went home, they could turn this into some sort of normality between them. He would take this. He would have to accept it was all he was going to get from her for now on.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy asked.

The waitress, with impeccable timing, delivered their coffees and left the bill for them. They left the bill on the table and brought their coffees closer to their person, dressing them with cream and sugar. He hoped his face wasn't showing the despair he had felt a moment ago.

"Nothing. I was just—thinking."

"You're always thinking. That's not an answer."

"I was wondering if this was how it was going to be between us from now on."

She raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"Drinks, easy talk, and then go our separate ways until the next week… or was this a one-time thing?"

She cradled the coffee between her hands, staring down into the cup.

"I don't know. Nothing's ever simple with us, but… I—I missed talking to you. I haven't really spoken with anyone since you left."

"Really?" he asked. "No boy-toys or company above the age of four chatting you up?"

It wasn't that hard to believe. He knew she could go months and years between speaking with her friends and—he hated to think of it—companions. He assumed she would seek comfort immediately with someone after he left though. She was the type of person to talk out her problems and concerns. Did she not speak to anyone about Wilson? Or was he—

"Really. It became kind of hectic with you gone. The Board took a few weeks to prepare for the meeting so I focused mostly on that. Then Rachel started school in September. This past week I've been pressured to find a new oncologist which is—hard. The two months you were gone flew by."

"Oh," he said lamely.

He was conflicted. He could continue getting information from her or let it go until the next time he spoke with her. The conversation was getting to close to his own issues and he definitely did not want to start to sift through those. She didn't give him the chance to choose.

"I'm glad you're back, House," she said while pulling out her wallet. He snatched the bill up, placing a fifty and ten inside. It was enough to cover the bill and a decent tip.

"You don't have to pay for me," she argued. She still had her wallet out.

"I asked you to meet me here. Least I could do," he shrugged it off.

She put her wallet away without anymore fuss and stood up. He stood as well, hissing slightly at his stiff leg. He saw her eye it, but was grateful she didn't comment on it. He followed her out of the crowded bar, making sure no one stepped back into him or jarring his leg. He saw that she parked right next to his bike. She turned towards him.

"Thanks, House. I needed to get away from—all of that for a while." She smiled. She stood in front of him, lovely and beautiful in the dim parking lot lights.

"You're welcome," he replied. "It was good seeing you back to your old self."

"How do you mean?" He was grateful she didn't sound offended.

"You were in charge again," he started. "I hadn't seen that fierce head-bitch in a while. It's good to see she's back."

"Well," she smirked, "she's had a lot of time to think about certain aspects of her life… She got lost there, for a while."

He almost reeled back as she took a step closer. She had a glint in her eye he had never seen and an air of confidence about her that he wanted to bury himself into or run from. He couldn't decide.

"I hope she stays for good then," his voice was gruff.

"She will… after she fixes some things."

And with that, she kissed him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I had to leave it off here because the kiss opens up the next chapter. So, please, don't kill me. Many thanks to the lovely AdieAngel and Akemi1582 who got this chapter beta'ed quickly! Thank you, dear readers, for the reviews, favorites, alerts and all that awesome stuff. I really appreciate it! Special shout out to <em>dearest penny lane<em> because 1) she knew what I was rambling about and 2) she has penny in her name. I am biased.**

**Working on Chapter 10 so it should be up and pretty by the end of the week. **


	11. Ch 10 Why

_**The paper cuts**_

_**From the love letter**_

_**You never gave him**_

_**Could not meet… **_

…_**Why would you say sorry?**_

"_**Black Plant" by the Last Shadow Puppets **_

* * *

><p>His bottom lip was trapped between both her lips as he stood frozen in place. Both of her hands were on his chest, letting her keep her balance as she reached up, bridging the difference between them. Her lips felt like fire in the cold air surrounding them. He could feel the warmth of her hands through his button-up shirt. The kiss itself lasted only two or three seconds: their lips meeting, a slight pressure by her, the release of his lips by her stepping down, but not back.<p>

She looked so unsure of herself. He knew his face was blank, his eyes searching hers intently. She almost looked like she was going to turn and run or flinch if he so much as moved a muscle. He wasn't going to make the next move.

"I'm sorry, House," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked, his voice quiet but not quite a whisper.

She huffed a laugh.

"For being screwed up and demanding. For not trying. For giving up. I can go on for a while."

"That's in the past now, Cuddy. You don't have to apologize for anything. It's done."

"I don't want it to be."

He took a step back from her. Something akin to fear dripped down his spine and made him weary of her. He witnessed the flash of hurt in her face.

"I think you had one too many Mai-Tai—"

"I'm not drunk! I'm not even tipsy," she growled. She took a step and closed in on his personal space again. "Do you want to know what I thought about in those two months? _Wilson_. My mind dwelled on his death. I couldn't see straight some days because of how—" she took a deep, shuddering breath,"—much I missed someone to talk to and lecture me. He was my best friend, too. Of course, with every thought of him, I thought of you. What were you doing? How much pain were you in? After two weeks I wondered if you were ever going to be released. I thought you were going to stay there… maybe permanently this time. Then Doctor Nolan called me and told me of your improvements… How you were working harder this time. That had been the first day I allowed myself to _breathe_. I thought about the two most important people in my life, every minute of every day. I've lost one and I won't lose the other."

He was taken aback by her declaration, simply because it was just that — a declaration. He could see the steadfast truth in her eyes. He looked around the parking lot, giving himself time to process what he had heard. His thoughts were focused on every word she uttered, but would not comprehend what she was saying. The lot was full to capacity, but they were the only ones standing in it. The white security lights illuminated them and darkened the scenery around them. He finally looked back at her, seeing the hope in her eyes.

"I have to go," he said slowly. "I'll — I need to think about this."

"Okay," Cuddy said. "I know you won't show up for work tomorrow but… come by for dinner… or come over Saturday. I'll be home all weekend."

He nodded, "I'm not promising you anything."

"I don't want you to."

With those words, he took the step forward and with one hand on her waist, the other holding his cane and bracing it with her back, brought her closer to him, leaning down and placing his lips on hers. He closed his eyes, savoring her warmth, feeling her smooth lips under his again and memorizing all he could in those few seconds. He let her go. She stood there for a moment, looking a bit dazed, before she mentally shook herself and reached into her purse, digging through it, and finding her keys.

"Good night, House."

"Night, Cuddy."

House hopped onto the Repsol and slipped his helmet on. He let her back out first and followed her to the exit. He watched the Lexus turn left and disappear down the street. He turned right and found himself home within minutes.

* * *

><p>He didn't bother turning on a light in his apartment when he stepped into the welcoming darkness. The living room was silent except for the occasional hum of a car passing by.<p>

He hung up his jacket on the stand by the door and placed his helmet on his desk. Then he stood there.

She had kissed him. And he had kissed her.

It was too good to be true. They could never continue their prior relationship on a whim. The night had gone too well. The world never worked in his favor. Wilson would have laughed at him. He was questioning himself because he was _happy_. Happiness was a foreign emotion. It was an alien that had crash-landed into his yard of misery and pain. He was happy that he and Cuddy were speaking. He didn't trust her, though.

There had been a niggling voice in the back of his mind that had stopped him from deepening the kiss in the parking lot.

She had been happy before with him and she had found fault in him at every turn. They had been happy together. They worked when their insecurities didn't get the best of them. Their issues were pushed out of their minds during the happy times and crushed them when they reappeared. He couldn't put up with it again.

His leg gave a twinge of pain. He limped stiffly into his kitchen, the moonlight the only thing illuminating his way. He smiled slightly. The light was coming through the same window Wilson had climbed through the first day he and Cuddy started their relationship. The same roll-away table was placed right under it. Then he remembered other times; cooking for them both, the smell of rosemary and thyme permeating the air; Wilson cleaning the dishes and complaining heartily while sipping beer; Cuddy sitting on the island, a glass of white wine in her hand and him sliding towards her side for a quick kiss while Wilson's attention was diverted. He smiled as he reached for a glass in his cupboard. He knew Wilson had seen the kiss.

As he filled the glass, the window in front of him reflected everything behind him in a blue haze. It didn't matter what time of day it was, the window always showed the reflection of the kitchen.

He sipped on his water and turned his back on the window, leaning against the sink.

Cuddy had been right when she said she didn't want to lose another important person in her life. He felt the same way. He didn't want to lose her. Being on friendly terms suited him and he knew they could pull off that façade indefinitely. But restarting their relationship was a risk. He risked losing her for good. He risked fucking up again and knew his sobriety was in danger when she would leave him. He didn't want to go through that again. The drugs, the booze, the hookers were all despicable and would probably kill him next time. If she left, there would be no one there for him. She made that clear the first time. Wilson had not even been there when he fell.

He was on his own. He wasn't going to be someone's temporary comfort.

As much as he wanted to hold her, kiss her, make love to her again, he knew he couldn't because of all the _emotions_ still running through both of their systems. This could be only residual guilt and despair from Wilson's death. They both were trying to fill a void in their lives. Jumping into each other was a bad idea. He could already see her regretting it in a month's time.

But they had always had this attraction.

He loved her. And he was sure she still loved him. Though how much, he wasn't sure. He laughed quietly in the darkness. He wasn't sure of much anymore. Wilson had told him once he was '_the man with the answers_.' He was '_the man with the answers_' or '_the man with Cuddy._' Why those two titles were mutually exclusive, he didn't know. He didn't know how to fuse them together. He chose her, giving up the latter, giving in to mediocrity. _I choose you_, he had told her. _I will always choose you…_

And it had not been enough.

Self-doubt and loathing crept into his mind. He would never be enough for her. She wanted a version of him he could never be and never give her. She doubted him. She didn't and probably had never trusted him, not in the way he had trusted her. He rinsed his glass and placed it in the sink. Yawning, he walked slowly to his room, his mind still going over details of the night.

When Cuddy had appeared at his apartment the night of the crane collapse, his saving the girl had been the catalyst for her change of heart. She had dated Lucas for almost a year, was engaged for a day, and left him. One hour she was to be Mrs. Lucas Douglas and the next she was lying in bed with him, panting and whispering that she loved him. He was a fool to act so quickly, especially after she had told him that she wished she didn't love him. His heart had only heard the '_I love you_…' and he was a goner. From the very beginning, she was fighting with herself. He overlooked it and ignored it until it suffocated them both. He had wanted to do the same tonight. He wanted to ignore the pressing weight of grief that Wilson's death was causing and be with her. He knew his getting clean again and going to Mayfield had convinced Cuddy that he had changed and that was being responsible. He didn't do it for her. He didn't want that to be the catalyst for a new start.

He wasn't going to let the issue pass this time.

He took off his clothes and threw them into the laundry bin in the bathroom. After pulling on his pajamas, he settled himself into bed on his back with his hands behind his head. He blinked sleepily and thought of how perfect Cuddy's warmth would be on this cool night, tucked into his side. She'd always had one part of her body touching his at whenever they shared a bed. He only complained when she brushed her feet against his legs because they were usually icy, unlike her torso. He remembered when she had purposely placed her foot on his calf once, making him flinch back. The sound of her sultry laughter had made him pin her to the bed and made her cry out that she was sorry while he tickled her and abraded her neck and chest with his stubbled kisses.

House sank into a restful sleep. It was the first night he would not dream of his dearly departed best friend.

* * *

><p>Friday started late for him. He slept in and took his time waking up, eventually having breakfast and then soaking in his tub. He grudgingly labored over paperwork that he needed to complete for the next week and then caught up on novellas and his soaps, his mind blissfully clear. It was at five o'clock when he allowed himself to worry about going to dinner at Cuddy's. She had given him an out by suggesting he stop by on Saturday, also, but he didn't want to postpone the inevitable. He felt like a coward for even thinking about showing up at her home on Saturday. He changed into clean clothes and debated with himself for five minutes on whether to trim his beard. He didn't. Knowing Cuddy served dinner at six, he left the apartment at five-thirty.<p>

Before he thought any more on it, he jumped onto his bike and took off.

* * *

><p>He rapped twice on her door with his cane before she answered. She looked surprised he had come over, but quickly hid it and ushered him inside. He could hear the television on Cartoon Network and hear Rachel's bell-like laugh.<p>

"Dinner will be ready in five," Cuddy said in greeting.

"Okay," he replied as he took off and hung his jacket and left his helmet on the floor below it. He watched her rush to the kitchen, admiring the fit of her dark jeans.

"House!"

Rachel was peeking out at him from the top of the couch. She looked bigger. She was certainly losing her babyish features and growing more into toddler-hood.

"Hey, Rachel," he said gruffly.

"Airbender is on! Watch with me?" She gave him great puppy dog eyes and she leaned over the couch top.

"In a bit," he told her with a small smile. "I'll be back," he added. She nodded, still beaming at him. He had forgotten about Rachel, but surprisingly she wasn't one of the problems in his and Cuddy's relationship. He liked the little girl and she seemed to like him. They had had late night snacks and watched cartoons together. She also was smarter than he originally thought… just slyly headstrong like her mother.

He walked to the kitchen, hanging back at the threshold to watch the woman in front of him. The kitchen smelled like spices and fresh bread. He watched her stir what he assumed was marinara sauce on the stove and move a pot of pasta over towards the sink, draining the water. She moved methodically, all of her movements precise and purposeful. She finally turned around and jumped when she saw him leaning against the doorframe.

"Shit! I thought you were still with Rachel," she gasped. She laughed airily, getting her bearings.

"Do you need any help?" he nonchalantly asked, his eyes still focused on her.

"I'm already done, actually. Wine?"

"Yes, please."

She poured him a glass of Cabernet and handed it to him, their fingers brushing. She retrieved her own glass and leaned against the counter, mirroring his relaxed pose.

"I'm glad you came, House," Cuddy said softly.

"We have a lot to discuss," he said, taking a sip of the red liquid.

"We do, but it can wait until after we eat and I put Rachel to bed."

He nodded, accepting that her routine could not change. He helped set the table as Cuddy placed Rachel on her high chair. Cuddy served them both plates of pasta and, at last, sat down with her own. The tinkle of silverware against glassware was all that was heard. He smiled at Cuddy whenever Rachel would make some "Mmm" sound, clearly enjoying the dinner her mother had made her. The food was good though the marinara should have been thicker, he thought. It might have been the Cabernet playing around with his palate, as it made the sauce faintly spicier, too. Cuddy was a slow eater so he took his time and let his eyes wander over her surroundings. Nothing was out of place. The house was still immaculately clean and tidy.

"Does my place pass your inspection?" Cuddy interrupted his thoughts cheekily.

"It does," he replied just as boldly with a smirk.

"Good. I was just wondering, since it seemed like you were running a differential in your head."

"Just thinking," he murmured.

They continued eating until their last bites and then she swiftly took their plates into the kitchen. Rachel's face was only partially covered in sauce so he cleaned her up with a napkin and took her down from her chair. She ran quickly out of the room. He could hear the pitter-patter of her feet on Cuddy's hardwood floor and the squeal she made when she found whatever she ran off to find. He limped to the kitchen, finding her mother washing dishes and the pots and pans she used to cook dinner.

"Will you dry these for me?" she asked without turning around.

He took a towel, hanging from the stove's rack, and stood beside her as she handed him dishes. It was silent except for the occasional sound that Rachel made in the other room.

"Are you going to avoid the conversation the whole night?" He finally snapped. "I could leave now and save you all the trouble."

She passed him the last pot, the large one that had held the pasta, and turned towards him after rinsing her hands. He passed her the towel for a moment so she wouldn't drip water on her floor, and resumed drying the large pot.

"Let me put Rachel to bed and we can talk."

"Sure," he replied, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

He could hear Rachel's groan of protest and begging words to Cuddy. The little girl was a natural night owl who loved staying up late and at all hours of the night. Cuddy had her on a strict schedule, though, with Rachel's early school hours and her work ones. He put the pot away and threw the towel down on the edge of the sink.

The living room was empty, with only a few toys scattered around the floor. He settled himself down on the end of the couch, in the same spot where he would lie back with Cuddy nestled beside him, he remembered. He straightened up and hunched over, elbows to knees as he cleared his head. He felt incredibly inadequate sitting on the couch, wondering what the hell was going to happen within the next few minutes when Cuddy returned. _What did they have to talk about? Would they mention Wilson or talk about what had happened the night bef_—his thoughts stopped as she walked back into the room.

She sat away from him, on the other end, bringing her feet up and under her. With an elbow on the backrest and her other arm on the side, she gave a great sigh of relief before looking at him.

"She's really in her terrible-twos now," she started. "I can hardly make her go to bed at a decent hour."

"She's an active kid. It's normal."

They petered off into silence again. He leaned back into the corner, stretching his arms in front of him and keeping his hands between his knees. For a moment he couldn't believe he was back in her home.

"Last night… you said you hadn't spoken with anyone since—since he died. Why not? You have your sister, other friends, maybe one of the nurses, certainly _not_ your mother…"

She snickered and gave him a sad smile.

"I tried to," she replied. On seeing his raised eyebrow and scoffing look, she insisted, "I did, really. The nurses would just go on and on about how we'll never get as good a man as Wilson was. My sister would get bored and stopped paying attention to me five minutes into the conversation. She knew Wilson but they were only acquaintances. No one… really knew him. Not like you and I. And you still knew him better."

"He was the annoying stalker best friend," he quipped.

She gave him a reproachful look.

"Sorry," he muttered. "We clicked. He knew me better than I knew myself at times, and I knew him. We could finish each other sentences and we liked the same stuff." He laughed grimly. "Wilson was the person I had a relationship with the longest. I never knew why he stuck around."

"You guys complimented each other," she said. "In your odd round-about way he was the only person you really trusted."

"I used to trust you, too," he said. "I trusted both of you."

She shifted her position on the couch, stretching out her legs towards the coffee table.

"I hope I can get that back… someday." Her voice was wistful and sad. Gray eyes met blue and stayed locked for another moment.

"Why, Cuddy? I never made you happy."

"That's not true!" She exclaimed. "I had never been happier until—"

"We had to face reality," he interposed. "And then everything went to hell."

"It wasn't that bad."

He scoffed. "We only fought every other day. You broke up with me twice, withheld sex and used it as a bargaining tool, brought work home with you…"

She looked angry with a touch of guilt swimming around her eyes.

"I didn't realize what I was doing until—" she sighed, "Wilson pointed out how unfair I was to you. You have no idea how sorry I am for that. I made you miserable."

"And I made you miserable. I lied, I drank, I corrupted your child… We both screwed up."

She scoffed, but scooted closer to him on the couch. Her head rested against the back of it, making her posture more relaxed.

"You're good with Rachel. She missed seeing you."

"She's the only one who'll know what cartoons I'm rambling about now."

"We did start off well, House," she continued back on topic. "We ended up fighting with each other instead of for each other. Once we got together, I didn't think we had to work for it. I thought everything was going to fall into place."

"That was a delusion." He told her bluntly. "That's seeing us through rose colored glasses and LSD. You and I are not easy people."

"I know," she quietly replied. "That's why you're the only man I have a chance to be happy with."

He felt as if she had stabbed him. Her look was one of reassurance, but to his ears it sounded like she was… _settling_. As if she were resigned and chained to her fate. He schooled his features as neutrally as possible. He wasn't going to fly off the handle at that careless remark.

"It's not that easy, Cuddy," he said gruffly.

"I know... but we don't have to analyze everything right away. We could work-"

"No."

She looked taken aback for a moment.

"No, what?" she asked sternly.

"No, we're not putting this off. Not again."

"I don't-"

"We're not pushing our issues aside until they come up again," he continued. "We did that last time and look what it did to us. If you're serious about us, if we try again, we won't make the same mistakes."

His voice never wavered or faltered. He felt proud to stare her down and say what needed to be said. He wasn't going to be passive. He wasn't going to let her procrastinate. They were going to work together. He wasn't going to let her have her way all the time and she wasn't going to let him have his.

"Okay," she said simply. Her eyes were glassy and she looked dejected. He couldn't tell if she was feeling that way towards herself or him. She didn't move back to her original place so he hazarded the guess that she was disappointed in herself. Or in them both.

"Okay," he repeated.

This was certainly new territory for them. He could remember only two instances where they were completely honest with each other, one with nudity involved and then other with her mother dying upstairs of nickel poisoning. He slouched more in his corner of the couch, getting more comfortable. His leg was stinging but not to the point where he had to move or take more ibuprofen.

"Why do you put up with me? Again you made it sound like you're stuck with me." He was still a little hurt about her comment. He could also tangent into other issues, he thought.

"I didn't mean it that way," she started, her voice low. "I should have said I can't look or even think of being with other guys after you. I... I've never felt this way about a person, clichéd as it sounds. I love you and only you."

"That was barf-worthily cheesy."

"Shut up," she growled with a smirk. She reached out to smack his arm but he caught her by the wrist. He slid his hand towards her fingers, lightly grasping them. Their linked hands fell between them, warm and dry, giving each a feeling of comfort.

"Our first night… you didn't want to love me," he continued and laughed grimly, thinking of being in his bathroom, dirty and bloody, with her standing in the doorway. "The next day you even told me you didn't want me to change…"

Her face betrayed her discomfort and unease. Her eyes were lowered towards their hands, a shine entering into them. He felt her thumb run along his palm.

"I didn't have a reason to run anymore," she spoke a moment later. "You… scared me, House—let me finish," she quickly said when he made to interrupt. "I was afraid of you. You were always there in your own weird way for me, day in and day out. One of the only constants in my life. Hearing you speak to Hannah… you were so _resigned_. You gave up on me that night—you would have walked away and let me marry Lucas."

He resisted shuddering as his ex-friend's name passed through her lips. She knew the truth. He did give up on her, on them. The two Vicodin in his hands were answer enough. He would have let her go and marry the private dick. He would have watched as she glowed during her engagement. He would have drunk himself blind on her wedding day and disappeared to some filth-infested part of Atlantic City to wallow in private misery for their honeymoon. That was only as far as his thoughts led him. He couldn't think of watching her live the rest of her days married to another man.

"I would have," he answered her. "I was going to walk away and finally let you be happy."

"I wasn't. He was never you. It hit me the moment you crawled out of that hole with the girl. I only ever wanted _you_, not some grand illusion of domesticity."

Her grip on his fingers tightened.

"You said that then, too… and look what happened."

"House, you can't expect us to totally be set in our ways. There has to be some compromise—"

"Exactly!" he exclaimed. "We both have to work together. _Us_, not you, me, the hospital and who knows what else. _Just us_. We have to make concessions and work together. We won't work if we can't."

Her eyes mapped his face intently. He hoped she saw the sincerity in his gaze and his honest desire to compromise with her—anything to be back with her or to return to how things used to be between them.

"Just us then," she replied.

He gave her a small smile, still too unsure where the conversation would take them for anything more. He ran his index finger over her knuckles, feeling each sharp bone and the soft skin stretched over it.

"This was a good start," he joked.

She chuckled and tossed her hair out of her face.

"For us, I'd say so. Now we only have to discuss your drug use, my control issues, and anything related to the hospital."

"You make it sound so simple," he playfully glared.

"If these were simple, we wouldn't be here," she said, arching one of her perfectly arched eyebrows.

"I'm so sorry about... the others that were at the hotel," he jerked his head to the side and continued on, hoping she got his reference about the hookers.

"I can deal with that if you don't see any again... or I'll make Lorena Bobbit my new mentor."

He winced at the name and thought of being castrated while he slept. It was a nightmare he didn't want to dwell on.

"It was a stupid thing to do. Even... Wilson had been so—disappointed in me. I should have listened to him."

"We all should have listened to Wilson a little more."

"Not that much. He was still as screwed up as the rest of us. He hid it better."

She smiled sadly. He noticed she had moved an inch closer and had relaxed further into the cushion. It was getting towards the later evening and he could see she was tiring.

"Do you think there'll be a situation where you'll relapse?" she asked suddenly. "I don't want us to fight and you take that as the first chance to sneak a pill."

"I can't promise you anything. I can only say that the thought of losing you and being alone brought me to that. I couldn't cope. I also don't want to do all of that again," he emphasized. "Now, if you died... I'd be truly alone."

"What if I was hospitalized again, House? What then?" Her voice was a bit strained with the question as if she dreaded the answer. He knew there was only one correct answer even though history had shown him differently.

"I'd be there. Next to you the entire time." He felt her squeeze his fingertips. "You can pummel me with one of your do-me heels if I'm not."

She laughed, rolling her eyes at him, but smiling.

"You don't know how much I regret that night," he said softly, running a finger along hers. It felt surreal sitting there, on her couch, and with her so near.

"Me, too."

He heard her whisper that wistfully. Her smile had faded into seriousness and her posture straightened as she sat up next to him on the couch. Cuddy studied his face, her silver eyes following the line of his jaw and moving down towards his lips. She looked back into his gaze and then looked toward his forehead. With her left hand she brought it up to his face, caressing his cheek before tucking back his hair behind his ear.

"Your hair's long," she said delicately. He was grateful she was distracting him from thinking about _that night_. It had been the one of the most miserable nights of his life. He was brought back out of his thoughts when he felt her nails slightly graze his scalp. He felt ridiculous for wanting to lean his head closer to her. She ran her hand through his hair and pulled it back. He immediately missed it.

"I have to get it cut. It's getting too long." He took his free hand and mused his hair, letting it stick up at all angles. She laughed huskily and quietly replied.

"I like it."

They were silent for a moment before a buzzing interrupted the peace. He pulled his cellphone from its clip at his waist and saw the faceplate announce that 'Homeboy' was calling him. He clicked on the side button to silent it and force the call into his voice mail. It was Friday night, the fellows knew better than to bug him. Unless someone was dying… in which he sincerely hoped not.

"You should have answered that," Cuddy said. "It could have been important."

No sooner had see finished her words that the phone blared to life again. This time the faceplate was telling him that the 'Crock Hunter' was calling.

"Answer it," Cuddy told him, the Dean of Medicine's voice creeping in.

He huffed, annoyed, and flipped open the cell.

"What?" he growled into the receiver.

He heard the Australian's drawl slowly explain the situation at the hospital. They had two patients with similar symptoms and who were crashing. The girlfriend was going 'to burn' first by the look of her vitals but her boyfriend was right behind her. House rolled his eyes at the list of symptoms announced arrogantly by Foreman's voice (Chase had him on speaker).

"Thank you for the _enlightenment_," he sneered into the phone. "I'll see you idiots in a half hour."

He hung up on them and clipped the annoying device back onto his belt. He could tell Cuddy was still staring at him, looking him with serious eyes. He knew she was going to open her mouth to order him back to the hospital for the weekend. He stood up, breaking the quiet spell that had fallen around them.

"I have to go," he brusquely said.

He grabbed his cane from its resting place and began to limp into her entryway. He heard her sigh and get up from the couch, following behind him.

"That sounded pretty bad… You'll keep me updated?"

"Probably not," he sniped. "When do I ever?"

She smirked but didn't push the subject. He shrugged on his jacket, and picked up the helmet underneath it.

"I'll see you later?" he asked, avoiding her gaze.

"Of course," she smiled softly.

He nodded and turned to leave, already reaching for the door knob.

"Hey," he heard her mutter.

He turned back to her, raising an eyebrow at the woman before him. Usually when he had a call from his fellows she would be kicking him out, telling him to rush to the hospital and make sure to not do anything too illegal in so many words. He ignored her of course and did anything to help his patient stay alive, but he had Wilson there. This would be his second case without his best friend, he thought. The first time he had steadily ignored the white elephant in the room so he hoped it would be as easy again. Having two patients and the bewildered sound of his team did not give him hope.

Cuddy had stepped into his personal space again, carefully as their eyes met. She placed both of her hands at his waist and looked up at him. She was so short without her heels or shoes on, he thought. He could feel her fingers pressing lightly through his shirt.

"Come back when you're finished. I'll be here."

The way she said the words quietly made him feel as if they meant more than what she was actually saying. '_I'll be here'_ rang heavier than anything, but he still did not let his guard down. Two decent nights in her company did not equal a steady, new beginning.

"Kiss me good-bye? At least?"

He thought he had heard her wrong with himself being so lost in his own thoughts for a moment. His body stiffened in surprise. He felt her fingers slipping away from his person, but he grabbed her upper arms to stop her. The hurt look on her face disappeared and she was now the one to look surprised. He could smell the slight fruitiness from the wine and alcohol on her breath. Her lips parted and an expectant look glinted in her eyes.

He bent over and pressed his lips to hers. She kissed him back, standing on her toes to give herself more height. He felt her press her body to his, turning her head and changing the angle of the kiss. He stepped back when she licked his bottom lip, not sure he would be able to stop with that type of kiss. She quickly hid her look of disappointment.

"Goodnight," he said, glancing at her and rushing out of the door.

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you for sticking with this story, dear readers! I love all your reviews, favorites, and alerts. I really appreciate it. I must thank my lovely Betas, too, and my faithful whiteboard, Iane Casey, for helping out with the tone and dialog. I wouldn't have been able to get through this chapter without you guys. Chapter 11 to come soon if real life doesn't interfere again. <strong>


	12. Ch 11 How Its Meant to Be

**Author's Note: First off, my deepest apologies for this taking so bloody long. I have to thank all my betas, Akemi1582 and especially AdieAngel, for putting up with the rewrites, long emails, subplots that were stupid and thrown away, very bad grammar and my constant fear of getting this wrong. Also, Iane Casey who is my every trusty whiteboard and whose advice helped out here very much. Without these ladies, my work would be atrocious and hardly any of you would read this. Thank you for continuing to do so, dear readers. Enjoy! **

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><p><em><strong>I've been trying to figure out exactly what it is I need,<br>Call up to listen to the voice of Reason  
>And got his answering machine.<br>I left my message but did the fuck get back to me?  
>And now I'm stuck still wondering<br>How it's meant to be… **_

_**- "Reckless Serenade" by the Arctic Monkeys **_

* * *

><p>Shit. That's what the whole fucking week was. Shit. The girlfriend had died first, aspirating on her own vomit, and other bodily fluids that had flowed through any opening in her body. The team had isolated both patients Saturday afternoon and everything had gone downhill the rest of the weekend. House had slept in his office chair on Saturday night and in a resident's cot the next. His leg wouldn't let him sleep in the chair again.<p>

Monday wasn't any better. The boyfriend was delirious and even less cooperative after seeing and hearing his girlfriend die in the next room. House cursed PPTH for having glass walls.

It was Tuesday night now; the boyfriend's life a thread between the sharp scissors of the Fates. The blades were fraying the thread and he knew he only had hours to find a diagnosis. Even with that, it may have been too late for the young kid. _He_ may have been too late.

Several books were scattered in front of him on the differential room table. He was sitting in his usual place at the head of it. His glasses were low on his nose. He had a journal in front of him. The words and letters swam in front of his eyes, blurring and blending into each other. He pushed the journal away, furiously, and watched as the books slid back, too. They teetered for a moment but did not fall. He lifted himself out of the chair stiffly. His leg was numb, but he could feel the stings and needles start to prickle down it. He pushed the chair away angrily and limped to the counter and sink. Coffee. He needed coffee. He needed caffeine's drug-induced alacrity and clarity. He would be able to focus in twenty minutes.

He had poured the water into the reservoir when he heard the door swing open.

Without turning he immediately growled, "I hope you have something intelligent to say or else you can walk the hell back out of here."

"Sorry, I don't."

His eyebrow rose as he turned to see the woman who had been on his mind since Friday night. Cuddy was in a navy blue suit, a grey, collared shirt, and black heels. Her hair was straight and shined in the dim light. Her smile made his heart leap, but he couldn't return it. He needed to focus.

"What are you doing here so late?"

He made himself turn back to the coffee maker. He closed the reservoir and added the coffee, turning the machine on. He was going to add to his comment with '_I thought you had a spawn to look after,_' but it wasn't fair to be so snappish towards her. She walked into the room, standing behind the chair opposite his. He could hear the _drip, drip_ of the coffee behind him.

"I had a budget meeting about the clinic. It seems we won't be as broke as they thought we would be."

He nodded, not interested at all of the welfare of the clinic.

"I was just going home, but I wanted to see how you were first. Foreman says it's not looking good," Cuddy said.

"That's the understatement of the year. Our patient will be dead in a couple hours if we don't figure out what's wrong," he replied, running his hand down his weary face. "We've tried everything we could think of and nothing is working."

His fist met with the top of one of the books on top of the differential table. He was tired and frustrated. He didn't want Cuddy there. He didn't want his work to be interrupted by his personal life. He compartmentalized his life. He didn't want to feel guilty for snapping at her if she spoke and said something idiotic. He jumped when he felt her hand on his bicep, running up and down in what was supposed to be a soothing manner. He tried not to flinch away from her.

"Where's your team? Shouldn't they be here running differentials?"

"They've already exhausted their limited supply of intelligence. I sent them to redo all the tests we've done and any additional ones they could think of. We've got jack-shit. Chase is doing the autopsy on the girl. Again, it'll be too late for him once we find out the results on her."

He felt her fingers tighten on his arm and then leave it.

"I'll leave you be, then," she said softly.

They both turned when they heard footsteps running towards the room. Chase was barreling through the hallway. He slid into the door, slamming it open and stopping it with the heel of his hand when it swung back. He didn't bother to step into the room.

"He has Leptospirosis," he gasped, trying to fill his lungs with air and speak at the same time. "Weil's disease. I found it in her kidneys." He panted at the doorway, looking between House and Cuddy.

"Why are you standing there, then?" House yelled, his patience paper-thin. "Go treat him if its not too fucking late!"

With a startled and reproachful look, Chase turned and ran back towards the stairs. House stood there, frustrated and tired. He felt relief that they knew the diagnosis finally. That was all he really cared about… He took in a deep breath and relaxed.

"Hopefully you saved your patient in time," Cuddy interrupted his thoughts.

"Whatever," he sighed. He heard the coffee maker beep three times, signaling that the pot was done. He ignored it. He wouldn't need it tonight. "I'll walk you out since it looks like I can go home now, too."

He collected his backpack and walked out with her. They were both silent until they reached the parking lot. He was reaching for his helmet when Cuddy broke the silence.

"You shouldn't ride when you're so tired," she said. "I can give you a ride."

His leg ached and he was exhausted. He was even too tired to tease her about the suggestiveness of what she had said. Accepting a ride would be no big deal. He nodded and followed her to her car. He fell asleep instantly in her front seat.

* * *

><p>"House."<p>

He stirred. He was warm and comfortable. He could smell plumeria and feel someone brushing their fingers along his right sideburn and cheek.

"House. Wake up. We're at your apartment."

He opened one eye blearily. Cuddy had taken off her seat belt and was leaning towards him. Her left hand was rubbing his cheek gently.

"Hey, you're home," she smiled. She made one more swipe of her fingers through his hair and pulled her hand back. He stretched and gave her a grateful, small smile.

"Thanks," he croaked. He grabbed his backpack from between his feet and unbuckled the safety belt. He reached for the handle to let himself out.

"Will you be over this coming weekend?" exclaimed Cuddy. She blushed at her outburst but pressed on. "We didn't get to see each other this past one."

He was too tired to do anything but nod. He limped out of the car, closing the door softly, and walked away. He heard her pull away from the curb, her car the only sound on the silent street. He watched as the red of her taillights faded away until he only had the street lamp above him for light.

For a moment, he was disappointed that she didn't take him to her home. Grabbing his keys from his inside jacket pocket, he shook his head. He still wasn't sure about her yet.

* * *

><p>"<em>What the hell do you think you're doing, House?" <em>

_Sunlight shone down upon them as they stood on his office balcony. The skies were clear and a brighter blue than his own eyes. No smog or pollution to be seen. He had not seen a day like this in a while. The temperature was mild and arid. _His leg didn't hurt.

_Next to him stood the man with small, crinkled eyes and a boyish face. Wilson's full sandy brown hair was combed back, but moved with the gentle breeze coming in from the Atlantic. He looked younger, his cheekbones in sharp relief, which made his face more angular. House smirked to himself. The man was dressed in a lilac collared shirt with a matching lavender tie. Dark grey pants completed the ensemble. His posture was relaxed. He was leaning over his part of the balcony, elbows on the stone ledge, hands clasped as if in prayer in front of him. He was looking towards the horizon and not at House. _

"_What do you mean?" _

"_I mean you're stagnant. You're going day by day and for nothing. Weren't you the one to tell me we only have the here and now?" _

"_Hm," House mocked-thought. "I seem to recall I did mention it once. When you were alive." _

_Wilson rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. _

"_Even more of a reason then to get on with life. It's too short," his best friend said matter-of-factly. "How'd you guess this was a dream?" _

_House laughed. "My leg doesn't hurt. I don't feel a scar either. You're much prettier than you were when you died, too." _

_Both men glanced at each before turning their gazes away again. House couldn't look into those brown eyes long. He was afraid the dream would change like the last and he would lose his best friend again to oblivion. _

_"Why are you fighting this?"_

_"Because she makes me vulnerable! She makes me lose all thought and she makes me hazy. I won't sacrifice my work again... especially since she hasn't and won't ever." He bellowed, thoughts he had buried deep within his psyche spilling out of his mouth, unwarranted. He had no idea where the outburst had risen from, but he knew that it was the point of this dream. It was his mind trying to work out the _problem_. _

_He wanted to punch the apparition next to him when he heard that deep, ornery giggle. Wilson had a smug grin that made his eyes even smaller and his face more boyish than ever._

_"Stop twinkling at me like you're some pain-in-the-ass Dumbledore," snarled House._

_"She makes you feel. Is that such a bad thing after all these years of being numb?"_

_"Feeling doesn't lead to rational decisions. _Feeling_ often gets people killed."_

_"Like me... for example?" Wilson sneered. "I cared and I died."_

_"Exactly," House surly muttered._

_"You, asshole! You're wrong! There's no correlation between what I felt and my death. It was an accident caused by an idiot kid. Even your unconscious is agreeing with me since you're dreaming this. You're trying to dissuade yourself from being happy, from being human. You'd rather wallow in misery than open yourself up to another person." _

_House exhaled sharply through his nose. He could feel a tick in his jaw twitch and his fists clench tightly. He wanted to wake up. He willed himself to open his eyes and look up into the ceiling of his bedroom. Nothing worked. He would stay asleep until his brain deemed it a right time to wake. _

_"If you're so God-damned omniscient now, what do I do? How do I not get hurt again?" _

_Wilson smiled turning his back on the horizon and facing the diagnostician. It was a cryptic "I-know-something-you-don't" smile and it irked House to pieces. _

_"You can't stop yourself from getting hurt, House," he said. "No one can. With the way you and Cuddy bitch and fight with each other, it's inevitable. But... you can make the happier times more frequent and longer-lasting." _

_"You sounded like an ad for Viagra just now," House deadpanned. _

_"Shut up," the other man smirked. "I know this is going to sound completely stupid," Wilson huffed, "but be yourself. Don't try to change to please Cuddy. You won't. For some insane reason, she loves you as you are."_

_Wilson gave him one more glance. House genuinely smiled. His heart lurched as he wondered if he would ever see or remember his friend this clearly again. The emptiness that Wilson left was still raw, and bit at House's thoughts. He felt lonelier than ever in the waking world. This felt the same as his dream with Amber on the bus, warm and comfortable and peaceful. It was a soft peace, which permeated through every inch of his body. It made him want to not leave until he perished in the real world._

_But it was false._

_There was no "other side" or afterlife. No comfort, no peace, just nothingness in a void of non-existence. He felt comfort in knowing _that_. _

_The two men stood there in stillness, each watching the other out of the corner of his eye. House was still facing the horizon and watched as the blue sky streaked with burnt oranges, vivid fuchsias, and midnight purples. As the sun set, the darkness became absolute. He was alone again as he watched the world fade into nothingness. _

* * *

><p>Be yourself.<p>

Those words were the first to echo at him as his eyes fluttered open to the semi-bright bedroom. His leg was stinging but a nice, hot shower would get rid of that ache. He was surprised he had slept the whole night and then some. He felt good and as normal as he could be.

The dream didn't harp on him, but it pained him to know he couldn't rely on his own subconscious for advice. He trusted himself but then only so far after all the drug use.

Be yourself.

Wasn't that what he was trying to do anyway? He was going to let Cuddy dictate their relationship anymore. Was he being too harsh or too unyielding? No. He was the same silly son of a bitch. He was only being careful if he was too harsh to her. Still throwing off the last vestiges of sleep, he reached for his phone. He had no messages or texts from any of his fellows. They would have taken the day off after the hellish weekend and would show up tomorrow afternoon, looking for a new case. They hated clinic duty almost as much as he did.

His body moved as if on autopilot. His thoughts raced and jumped tangents as he set his coffee to brew and jumped in the shower. The hot water relaxed him further and sent him deep into his own mind.

He felt like he had to do something, though. It gnawed at him that she had invited him out to dinner at her place. She had made the first move by admitting she had been too hasty in dumping him. She had told him that she loved him still, despite everything that had happened. She had kissed him and had wanted more from him. He was sure of it.

He knew he wasn't ready for anything that close with her yet. He knew if he hopped into bed with her, he would forget everything that had transpired and just revel in her. He felt sappy and annoyed that he had to be sure of her to share his bed with her again. If it had been anyone else, House would have already been sleeping under her covers.

But pride wouldn't allow it. Yes, pride he could handle. He would blame his hesitation on pride rather than fear and love. He turned off the water, dried himself off and lay back down. He didn't have to rush anywhere.

That dream made him think like Wilson. Ugh, he thought. It was disconcerting to dream of his best friend but it was one of the only faults of his brilliant mind. Did geniuses also dream of electric sheep? He laughed at the illogical metaphor.

He brought both of his bare arms up over his head and stretched, cradling his head when he folded them behind himself. Goosebumps pimpled his skin in the cool air of his bedroom. The sheets under and around him were warm and comfortable. He didn't have to get up after last night. Chase had found what was wrong so the team would be slacking off and relaxing on their day off, too.

He was growing to detest these types of days. His thoughts were jumbled and discordant in his own head. He thought of Cuddy and her compromise and white flag of semi-surrender. He thought of Wilson and the dream. These were the times he missed his best friend most. On his previous days off, what seemed like a lifetime ago, he would have called Wilson up and dragged him out of the hospital. They would have gone bowling or to Cheetahs to stare at the girls and pass the time sipping scotch and shooting the breeze. Hospital gossip would have been the hot topic, moving onto the mental deficiencies or problems of the dancers. 'No, she definitely has Daddy issues,' Wilson would have said while slurring each word. The day would have ended with both of them laughing raucously and arrogantly.

Another lifetime ago, Cuddy would have synced one of her days off with his. They would have lain in bed, pajamas rumbled from being on the floor all night and hastily pulled on before the midget-Cuddy woke up. He remembered how wild Cuddy's hair would get, ringlets framing her face. They lounged there, spooned together and cocooned by the many blankets and pillows she always had. It was the most peaceful part of his day. Most mornings they did have sex before the hastily-putting-on-clothes part, but on others they would just lay there, her head on his shoulder and his nose buried in her curls. He would doze, his mind clear for once and only filled with the scent of her. She was always the first to become restless and break the spell that had fallen over him.

But none of that would happen today. He was alone in his bed, reminiscing of the past. He thought of the date. It was a month until what would have been his and Cuddy's one-year anniversary. He had lasted nine months with her. At the time he hadn't even realized how short that actually was. He had been with Stacy for five years. Of course, there hadn't been a kid involved, which would have complicated matters significantly, and Stacy had been more independent than Cuddy, willing to be on her own, alone, if she needed to be. Cuddy needed someone. She needed to be needed. It wasn't a weakness. He knew that now, particularly more than ever with Wilson's absence.

He feared the loneliness. He didn't have the pressing need Cuddy seemed to have, but he needed someone there for him. Before Wilson's dea—absence he knew he was never going to be alone. He knew Wilson would have always been there for him no matter how much he fucked up. Where she had had no one, he had his best friend. He feared the long hours, marching to boredom and obsession. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to live the rest of his life in self-induced solitude. He wasn't going to compromise his self, but he would make exceptions when it came to Cuddy. _Didn't he always_? He thought. He wouldn't be so much of an asshole. He would look after her because he had always been a bit old fashioned. She would have sole responsibility over her kid, but he would be there for Cuddy if she needed him.

However long they were together.

That still bit at him. They were together now, but for how long? He felt like he had limited time. It rankled on his nerves. Their time was limited... and it depended on her. She would decide the time and date of severing all ties with him.

He shouldn't feel that pressing weight on his chest. He shouldn't feel like he was one screw up away from another breakup. . He felt beholden on her ability to commit and he didn't like it one bit.

He no longer trusted her with his sanity or his heart.

In all his years of knowing Lisa Cuddy, he had always trusted her to some degree. He had trusted her to make the right decision when it came to his antics at the hospitals; he had trusted her medical judgment-calls when it came to his health; he didn't trust her with his... well-being.

He took a deep breath, feeling the air expand his chest and the sheets around him shift. 'WWWD, _What Would Wilson Do?'_ he thought, smiling ironically. The day he would welcome advice was the day he wasn't going to get it. A sudden thought came to him, one that he didn't mind passing the day with.

He would try to get that advice. One way or another.

* * *

><p>The old man nodded to House as he limped by, the grass under his feet dry after a week of no rain. The old man's dark and wrinkled features made him think of a bulldog, stubborn and ugly. House noticed that he was still wearing the same blue cover-alls and holding a rickety old rake.<p>

Stopping his musings, he looked ahead and navigated his way through the cemetery. The stones were smooth and free of debris. The grass was thick and so green. The air was fresher than it had ever been, especially for Jersey. He finally came to the stone he wanted to see most.

The flowers were gone and no more tokens had been placed on it. He noticed his coins had vanished. Looking around he was surprised to see one lone elderly woman, fifty yards from him. She was hardly noticeable due to her kneeling on the ground; she was easily ignored.

He breathed in the crisp air around him.

"I don't know what to do," he said so quietly, it could have been taken as a mumble, "You would be dancing a jig right about now at that."

Wilson had always _glowed_ when House came to him for advice. The younger man would smile knowingly, having already heard the bitching and gossip about the problem, before subtly goading his friend in the correct direction. House would pervert the advice at times, but the results showed for themselves.

"It's Cuddy," he went on. He looked up to watch the old woman get to her feet, brush her skirt, and walk away. He watched her slow progress to the parking lot and then turned back to the stone below him. He dragged his palm down the side of his face, wearily thinking of his next words.

"She wants me back. She apologized, and I apologized, and... we just are." His voice dripped with exasperation. "I don't know what to do. I want her back. I want her to be a daily occurrence—if you get my drift."

The answering breeze made him feel less stupid for the comment.

He sighed. "I can't trust her, Wilson. I refuse to rethink my actions, to give in to taking another person's feelings into account while I work. You know I wouldn't be such a bastard to her but she can't expect me to become one of her whipping boys, either."

House gritted his teeth. He was never going to let himself go back to appeasing her for the littlest things. He had budged enough. They had to accept each other and that was final. If not, they would never work.

It was probably the sorest of the wounds she had left him with. He could understand her using the drugs as an excuse to walk away. One of her greatest concerns was a drug addict being around her daughter as if he would taint and influence Rachel into his former way of life. He understood that with crystal clarity. If not for Rachel, she would have kicked his ass straight to sobriety again. He knew that she didn't want to be the one to keep him sober, though. She didn't want or need that while taking care of a little girl who needed her twenty-four/seven. He didn't begrudge Rachel that at all. He knew what it was like growing up in a household where one parent neglected their duty to the kid. Rachel was lucky to have such a wonderful mother in Cuddy. Not many parents would sacrifice as much.

He couldn't stop thinking that Cuddy could have helped him that night, though. But she hadn't. She had never changed in her ways or compromised in order to help him. That night, she had taken 'an eye for eye'. He wasn't there for her in the beginning of her stay at PPTH; she wasn't there for him in his weakest moment. The only difference was that _quid pro quo_ didn't apply here. He had come to her. She had never come back to him. Wilson's death was the catalyst for her apologizing. Nothing would have been resolved if not for that crucial event, he was sure of it.

"This is so fucking frustrating without you here, you jerk," he growled.

He started to pace after feeling his leg give a twinge of warning from standing in one place for too long. He took ten steps to the left and twenty back to the right, stretching his stride and ignoring the cramp that was threatening to make him stumble.

He froze as he heard a leaf crunch under someone's foot, the sound echoing in the cemetery's silence. He had been thinking of Wilson's _philosophy_ so much he hadn't heard a car come into the lot or the person walking towards him. It wasn't the sound of a man's heavy footstep. He turned his head sharply, meeting a silver gaze. Cuddy was in regular blue jeans, tight at her hips, and a Michigan University sweatshirt. The navy blue and yellow of the hoodie stood out in stark contrast to the deep greens around her. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail with her long bangs combed to the left and over her ear. She still had her work war-mask on, make-up touched up to perfection. She had only gone home to change then and pick up the item in her hands.

She held a half-dozen lilies. The flowers were long stemmed and pure white in color. It made a strangely beautiful panoramic photo, her standing there, looking at him, the lilies held to her chest and the large oaks and blue sky in the background.

"Hi," Cuddy said.

"Hi," he replied, lamely he thought. He felt too open. The tension in the air was thick.

She ignored him for the moment, moving behind him to place the lilies on the grave, artfully arranging them at the foot of the headstone. It made the grave look brighter. She stepped back and stood at his side, six inches separating them.

"It's sad that no one visits graves anymore. Most people only go to the burial and never return," she muttered, whether to herself or to him, he didn't know. "You would think they had forgotten their loved ones. It's sad," she repeated.

"_To be forgotten is the saddest of fates_," he quoted before speaking again. "People embraced death in the past. It was commonplace to visit a grave of a loved one, leaving food and flowers. It wasn't so much about mourning than celebrating their new life _elsewhere_. Nowadays, people don't want to put up with it," House uttered.

"'Put up with it' sounds so awful. It makes people sound so shallow. As if death was an inconvenience."

"Death is an inconvenience. No one is looking to die any time soon. If I kick the bucket before I ever get to have sex with Angela Merkel, I'd punch Death in the face."

Cuddy snickered, obviously trying to hold in her laughter.

"When you put it that way…"

"For all the shit in the world, no one wants to greet Death early, or at all. Why do you think suicide is so taboo and stigmatized?"

"True. _Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me_…" Cuddy softly spoke; prose slipping through her lips with no hesitation.

"There's no carriage or waiting paradise. Only the here," House stubbornly announced.

Cuddy shrugged.

"It gives me comfort. I think I'll see my dad again. I'll see Wilson, smiling and more relaxed than ever. I can't help but hope."

"You are a not-so-closet romantic."

"Secretly, you are, too," Cuddy teased. "You want someone to prove you wrong."

House rolled his eyes.

"If I had a dollar every time someone told me that—"

"You wouldn't have to work for me."

They turned and met each other's eyes for only the second time since she scooted closer to him. Her face was passive and open. Her emotions were bared to him. He could read the sadness in the slight crow's feet at the corner of her eyes; the way her lip quirked to the left told him she was glad and amused to see him; her hands were tucked into the pouch of her hoodie, keeping warm from the chill of the winter day.

"How long have you been here?" she changed the subject.

"I think an hour. How many times have you visited?" he countered.

"I've come once every two weeks. My babysitter knew to stay an hour or two extra today."

He nodded. They stood mutely, eyes wandering around the scenery around them or focusing on the headstone.

Suddenly he heard her sniffle. She was looking away, but he could see a tear trail down her cheek.

"Hey," the concern leaked through in his gruff voice.

"Sorry," she said, sniffling again. "I still get teary eyed when I come here."

"Come here," he spoke softly. He hated to see women cry, and most especially this woman.

She molded herself into his side as he wrapped his free, left arm around her shoulders. Her hands remained in the warmth of her hoodie pocket. She sniffled and, taking her left hand out from the warmth, wiped her cheeks quickly.

"The last time I saw him I was kicking him off my doorstep," she started. "He was asking me to go talk to you."

House didn't reply. He had heard this before.

"I told him no. I didn't even say good bye to him as I closed my door in his face."

She leaned on him slightly. He wished the jacket he wore were thinner, so he could feel her warmth. He gently rubbed her shoulder where his hand rested.

"He probably forgave you before his feet hit the sidewalk."

She chuckled through her sniffle.

"He probably did. It still doesn't keep me from feeling like shit."

"There's that classic Cuddy guilt," House tried to mutter to himself.

She elbowed him and gave him an indignant look. He gave her a shrug and turned his eyes back to the stone in front of him. They stood there, comfortably silent as they paid their respects. It was only when he felt her shiver that he knew it was time to go. He only tugged her by her shoulder and she followed him out of the cemetery, his arm securely wrapped around her and helping him balance more in the process.

Before she was able to say good bye to him, he interrupted her.

"Dinner. My place tomorrow. Bring the kid, too."

She was shocked for a moment before schooling her features into delight.

"Okay," she smiled.

"Okay," he repeated.

He gave her a small smile and got into his car. The rain had come back and started to fall as he put his keys into the ignition and heard the car sputter to life. His radio was low but he distinctly heard Dinah Washington's bell-like voice sing, '_What a difference—a day makes…'_

He agreed.


	13. Ch 12 Night and Day

**AN: A huge thank you to the lovely AdieAngel for betaing this chapter and always providing excellent feedback. I'd die (and this story would suck) without it. And also to my whiteboard, Iane Casey, and Akemi1582 for their input and reactions to this chapter. They made my day. With the holidays approaching and real life still incredibly busy the updates will probably be somewhere between two weeks or a month apart. Chapter 13 is almost done though. Thank you all, dear readers, for sticking with this story. I appreciate it so much! –PSC**

* * *

><p><em><strong>When you're feeling far away<strong>_

_**She does what the night does to the day**_

"_**She's Thunderstorms" by the Arctic Monkeys **_

* * *

><p>Why did he invite her to his home again? His sanctuary. He even told her to bring the kid. He groaned, the sound reverberating in the quiet. Why the fuck did he ask Rachel to come, too? Was he subconsciously using her as a buffer? No. He had felt Cuddy's grief and guilt in the graveyard and—damn, his mouth!<p>

He had felt bad for her. Not pity and not 'sorry,' but felt _for_ her. If that made any sense.

_House,__for__a__genius,__you__are__an__idiot_, he thought depreciatively.

He was standing in his kitchen at the sink, looking out at the side of the next building. It was very late. He hadn't bothered to turn on a light since he knew every nook and cranny of his apartment and could walk around blind. House held a glass of milk in his left hand and shifted his weight onto his left leg. It helped stave off the cold from his bare feet and relax his mangled thigh muscle.

He took a sip.

For a moment he wished his cell phone would ring and announce he had a case. He wished for the shrill sound to break the silence and his plans; an excuse to post pone. He cringed. He was a coward, a confused coward sipping milk starting to warm in the middle of his cold kitchen in the dark. He smirked to himself. What would Nolan have said if he had seen him like this? It was probably the psychiatrist's personal wet dream; a narcissistic genius with familiar issues and an obsessive-compulsive borderline with violent tendencies. He could picture Nolan in his mind's eye, flipping through the DSM and listing specific 'illnesses' for categories I-IV.

Taking another sip, the milk was almost too warm now and left an after taste in his mouth.

His leg wasn't so sore tonight. He considered it a victory. His need, the always-present urge for Vicodin, had pushed its way into the background of his mind, too. He wasn't jonesing. A single roach of marijuana would have helped him sleep, he thought hopelessly. He realized he hadn't had any nicotine or smoked anything for months. Had the maid moved or hid the ashtray he used to have on his end table by his side of the couch? It was gone and had slipped his mind. He really hadn't had any of his vices…

That thought made him freeze.

Was he already so preoccupied with Cuddy that he wasn't noticing the obvious? If he wasn't noticing that, he was surely missing the minutest of details. His skin prickled into goose bumps. Would he have noticed a hidden symptom with his last patients if he hadn't been thinking of her lips or what she might have been doing while he was frantically searching medical journals for any inspiration?

No, he had been focused. He hadn't thought of her until she had walked through the glass door, he lied to himself. He had been focused while at work.

He racked his tired brain for anything he might have missed. He pictured his whiteboard covered in black marker with colored notes in the non-existent margins from his fellows. He had missed _nothing_.

He took another sip and grimaced. The milk was disgusting. He tipped the glass and emptied the rest into the sink, rinsing it and leaving it on the counter.

He couldn't remember what time it was, but he knew he needed to sleep a few hours more. It was after midnight, he was sure. He estimated that he had twelve hours until Cuddy arrived. He blinked and realized his tired feet had carried him to bed. He flopped down, face rubbing almost sensuously against his pillow. He drifted off, mind still whirling in circles.

* * *

><p>It was four o'clock in the afternoon. House had all the lights in his living room and kitchen on. The sun had decided to disappear, leaving the day overcast and dreary. Every so often he could hear the distant rumble of thunder. No rain accompanied it but he held no hope for later that evening.<p>

He had awakened to Cuddy's text asking him what time she should be over. It had been one o'clock. He texted her back and told her to come at five, which now meant that he only had an hour until her arrival and he still hadn't started on anything. He had tossed out the accumulated newspapers and magazines that had piled up next to the piano. His maid had been in a few days earlier so his place was still relatively clean. He stared stonily into his refrigerator.

Fifteen minutes passed and he froze when he heard a knock on his door. His eyes flickered down to his watch. That couldn't be Cuddy. No way in hell would she be this early. She was neurotically punctual but not this fucking early, he thought repeatedly. The knock sounded again. He limped to the door intent to yell at the person behind it—only to see Cuddy's unsure smile meeting his snarl.

"I wanted to beat the rain," she explained sheepishly, umbrella hooked on her arm and Rachel's hand in her own. She held Rachel's large care bag over her right shoulder.

He had schooled his expression into a small smile instead, hiding the panic he felt.

"I see. Come in," he ushered them inside, "Um. I was just going to start cooking."

Rachel was smiling warily at him. She usually was a quiet kid, but he had the distinct impression that she was apprehensive of him. Had she seen her mother crying and known it was because of him? Did she hear her aunt or grandma curse him and tell her mother she was better off without him? He doubted she knew or understood much about her mother's love life, but she was smart enough to know when her mother was hurt. The little girl made herself comfortable on the couch, Cuddy taking out the requisite coloring books, crayons, and toys for her to play with.

"What are you making?" Cuddy asked, straightening up.

He couldn't control the deer-in-the-headlights look that he gave her. She placed her hands on her hips.

"You don't know what to make, do you?"

"I was just getting to it when you barged in here," he replied almost sheepishly.

"Come on," she beckoned, going into the kitchen. He gave one last glance to the little girl who watched them walk away with ice blue eyes. Cuddy was standing at the refrigerator with the door open, peering in.

"Do you have a large soup pot?" she asked him suddenly.

"Yeah, I'll get it."

He took a large copper pot from a cupboard and placed it on the stove. He watched as Cuddy bent down and started pulling vegetables out of the lowest bin. He admired one of her most precious assets, her jeans stretching deliciously and her shirt riding up and showing off the cute dimples he used to dip his fingers into and grip her. He bit back a groan thinking about the last time he had had sex. He watched her bring out his cutting board and knife.

"Hey! I'm supposed to cook. I invited you and the kid remember?" he started, getting to his feet.

"Then get over here and cook," she said, turning towards him and raising an eyebrow. She used that mixed flirty-annoyed voice with him and he couldn't help but grin slightly. He could feel the right corner of his mouth raise up. Her answering grin made him feel less nervous.

"I take it I'm making veggie soup? That's it?"

"That's it. Just something simple and quick. She won't sit for long."

She nodded her head towards her daughter. The girl was quiet, kneeling on the floor now and using his coffee table to draw and color. He turned back and started slicing up carrots first.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched as she leaned against the counter. She was trying to relax but he could see the slight tension set into her shoulders and the twitch of the corner of her lip. The rain had started to pour outside, splattering pitter-patter against the kitchen window.

"I'm glad I dodged that—"

"Are we really going to start talking about the weather?" He hadn't meant to snap at her, but his patience had instantly thinned. He was disgruntled that she seemed to feel uneasy in his kitchen. That several months ago she would have eaten breakfast naked with him and not cared about anything close to discomfort. It was annoying.

"Sorry," she started.

He placed down the knife and immediately invaded her personal space. He cornered and pressed her against the counter. They were off to the side of the kitchen, out of sight of the girl in the living room so he had no problems or interruptions.

"Don't apologize," he growled down at her. He pressed her further against the wood, his face only inches from hers. Her face darkened quickly.

"What're you doing?" she asked quietly, her voice low, with only a hint of the violence she could inflict. That was the woman he was used to hearing.

This wasn't how he wanted this evening to start, nor how he wanted this to turn. He placed both hands on her upper arms, calmly, with his grip soft.

"Relax. I'm not about to go running for the Vicodin or start yelling like a madman."

She nodded, looking affronted and weary.

"I can't help it. It feels different here."

He felt her hand tentatively touch his waist and then the other. He pulled her in closer still, arms wrapping around her shoulders as she moved towards him and her arms wrapped around his waist. The hug was familiar, something like a flesh memory, and a relic of what they had. He felt the tension leave her shoulders slowly. His cheek was against her temple and hers against his neck. His nose was directly in her hair, the scent of French vanilla wafting towards him. He felt her grip loosen and he stepped away.

"I've been hoping it does."

"It's stupid that I expected it wouldn't. I keep thinking we'll go back to _normal_ and it'll be as if nothing happened."

"When has it ever been normal for us?"

She chucked quietly and shrugged.

"At least the diversity is constant. Hurry up and cook dinner," she ordered, looking settled and comfortable again, "I'm surprised Rachel has been so quiet."

House hesitated.

"All kids are leery of the guy who made their mothers cry," he answered her. "She's smart. She probably picked up on it."

Cuddy frowned, crossing her arms and chancing a glance out towards the living room.

"I kept her away from that sort of stuff. She was with Julia's husband and kids when I was in the hospital and—afterwards."

"Doesn't matter," House answered. He focused on the potatoes he was cutting in small sections. "If you looked angry or depressed, she would put one and one together and get _House__is__an__ass_."

He stopped chopping for a moment when he felt her press against his back, the warmth of her cheek on his shoulder blade. Her arms wrapped loosely around his waist. He ignored the way her breasts felt against his back and his increased heart rate. Reaching for the cabbage he felt more than heard her sigh.

"I hate when you're right," she said.

He huffed and didn't answer. He had started cutting strips of the cabbage to add to the pot next to him. They stood together for long minutes in silence. House reluctantly moved from her embrace to get broth from his pantry. Finally, he had everything mixed, chopped, and added. The large pot of soup was heating on the stove when he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the living room.

Rachel looked up briefly and moved around to the other side of the coffee table, letting the adults sit on the couch. She did stare at him a moment too long and House noticed the way she listened to everything around her. She was bright. He would have bet Wilson one hundred dollars she would be a troublemaker no matter what Cuddy did to curb that tendency.

Cuddy sat next to him, their thighs nearly touching. He threw all caution to the wind and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, closing that small gap. Instead of being ominous, the rain soothed the atmosphere in the apartment and lessened his fears. He was still afraid she would rip out his heart and nail it to his door, but it felt insignificant at that moment. Her warmth was welcoming. Her right hand landed gently on his left thigh, fingers making small circles on his jeans. Only the small sound of scratching crayons on heavy paper interrupted the quiet.

"I'm not looking forward to this week," she began. "There's a fundraiser at the hospital on Friday night…"

"And you want me to go." He deadpanned.

She looked up at him through her eyelashes; hope shinning through her silver orbs. Her face was masked. He couldn't tell what her reaction would be to his negative response.

"What are you offering?" He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. Her lip twitched almost as if she were holding back a smirk.

"I won't chase you down for clinic hours."

He pretended to mull over the very weak offer in his head before shaking it.

"No deal."

"What? You haven't been to a fundraiser all year," she scowled. "The hospital still receives donations based on your presence alone so—"

"No clinic and you have to take me out Saturday night. Leave the munchkin at home."

"Fine."

She had said that too quickly. Her sudden razor sharp smile confirmed he had been suckered in too early and asked for too little.

"You were going to take me somewhere Saturday anyways." It wasn't a question. He already knew the answer before her lips moved.

"Yes. There's a motorcycle race that night. I saw a billboard off the highway and ordered the tickets online. I thought you'd like to go…"

"I'd love to," he honestly said. "I haven't been to one since—"

His voice caught in his throat. Wilson had gotten him tickets to see the demolition derby for his birthday. They had to take a taxi home because Wilson could barely walk, much less so with the help of a crippled man who was also highly intoxicated. The next morning had seen both of them worse for wear, but delighted from the carnage and wrecks they witnessed the prior night.

Cuddy squeezed his thigh reassuringly. Her eyes watered slightly.

"I know," she whispered. Her face held the promise that _things_ would get better. Her eyes told her that the pain would always be there but lessen in time. The slight worrying smile and twitch of her cheek told him she would be there for him. But nothing in her bearing gave him the reassurance that she would _always_ be there for him.

And that scared the shit out of him. He suddenly rose stiffly from the couch, wanting to leave the warmth offered so freely to him.

"I need to check on dinner," he thickly uttered. Fifteen minutes had passed at most so the soup wasn't even to boiling on the low setting Cuddy had chosen. Steam was wafting off the top but he could tell the potatoes were still raw and the cabbage too hard. He lingered by the pot, trying to think of an excuse to procrastinate more by the stove. His thoughts raced again. Was it wrong to assume she didn't think of something long term? He certainly didn't. They still hadn't discussed what had happened that destroyed their relationship. It was after the crane accident all over again; her rushing to his aid, albeit late, and him accepting her without any question because she was all he wanted now.

"How is it?"

He flinched. So lost in his thoughts, he failed to hear her walk behind him. She stepped back instinctively, her face one of concern.

"I shouldn't have bought those tickets knowing how you and Wil—"

"It's not that," he scathingly whispered. She looked at him in disbelief.

"It's not entirely it," he amended. "How long are we going to pretend everything's hunky-dory? How long before I fuck up again and see you walk away? Because I will screw up. Maybe not now, not for a week or two, or hell—maybe even a year if I'm lucky… But I will fuck everything over and destroy this pleasant domesticity in which we've suddenly entrapped ourselves. I've told you all this once before and you still walked away."

His voice didn't waver. He felt a savage pride that he could still render her speechless with his outbursts. He watched her swallow, either pride or saliva, he couldn't tell.

"I thought we were past this, House," she slowly said.

"We ignored it," he retorted. "Like we always do. Not this time."

"I'm not leaving or even planning on walking away," she started, her eyes hard and frosty. "Yes, you'll fuck up and chaos will reign down on us, but we'll work through it together. No matter how bitchy I get or how much you turn into an arrogant asshole, we'll make it."

The resolution shone through her eyes. But he still felt trepidation.

"I want to believe that. I did the last time…"

"As I've said before, House," she gently murmured, "we'll have to deal with and share our pain. No running away from it. We have to be there for each other." She paused. "You have to learn to trust me again."

He clenched his jaw and looked out toward the living room. He couldn't hear anything from Rachel. He knew he was stalling. Did he want to—he mentally sneered—be open with his pain? He had resigned himself to bear that burden alone while at Mayfield. He hadn't thought she would want to reconcile so easily.

"House?" Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now she looked uncertain.

He couldn't say anything that would matter. Saying he would trust her again would be lying and saying he tried would defeat the purpose of trusting in her in the first place. He hoped she saw that he was being honest in his silence. He stepped into her personal space and raised a hand to caress her cheek. Her skin was soft under his thumb. He bent towards her, knowing that a simple kiss wouldn't solve anything, but that it would mean something to her. He didn't want to know what it meant to himself.

His eyes closed when he felt her lips brush his. The hand that had been on her cheek moved to the nape of her neck as his other held her waist and brought her closer to him. He added more pressure, firmly kissing her now. When she licked his bottom lip this time, he didn't hold back. He took a deep breath through his nose and tasted her, his tongue sliding sensuously against hers, curling and caressing. He familiarized himself with the not-quite-forgotten textures of her mouth and feelings that had been buried with his best friend. The hand holding onto her neck moved under her arm to wrap around her back. She fully pressed herself against him. He could feel himself stir in his pants. He moaned quietly before ending the kiss and resting his forehead on her shoulder. Her panting breaths were hot against his ear and cheek and her arms tight around his waist.

"You're still easy," she huskily told him, her lips tickling his ear.

He groaned, but held her tighter.

"Give me a few minutes," he said into her collarbone. Her hands started moving up and down his back, feather light. It was soothing and relaxing, helping him calm down from his state of arousal.

"Mom!"

It was the hungry cry of a fledgling whining for its mother. Rachel's voice held such a pitch that it meant that Cuddy had better check up on her daughter before the girl came in search of her herself. It hadn't reached the higher notes that he knew it could become and which warned of tears and temper-tantrums, though they were rare with Rachel. He felt Cuddy sigh against him. Her lips pressed against his cheek for a second before she stepped back, forcing him to raise his head and look at her. She had a tiny spark in her eye, the same intensely attractive one that had vanished after _that__night_.

"The soup should be done by now. Set up a few bowls and I'll get her settled," she ordered.

He wanted to make a smartass remark about whips, leather, and doing her bidding, but he held his tongue. He didn't want to break the moment, though he knew once she walked away it would disintegrate.

He ladled the soup into blue bowls and set spoons on the table for his guests. Rachel entered the kitchen first, climbing onto a chair and sitting still as her mother sat down beside her and made sure she wouldn't make a mess. They ate in silence.

The soup wasn't anything special. It tasted plain and nutritionally boring. He was pleased to see the younger Cuddy wolfing it down with gusto. Her mother ate normally, occasionally glancing at them both.

"Don't you feed her?" he smirked at Cuddy.

She glared at him in answer.

They chatted for the rest of the meal about the banality of work and responsibilities. The Board was on the Dean's case again concerning the expansion of the hospital.

"I don't know what they want me to do," she huffed. "I don't agree that we need a new wing. We barely have money for the clinic, much less a whole new section of the building."

No mention of oncology or his department reared up until she hesitated and dropped her spoon in her empty bowl.

"I was wondering—"

"That's not new."

"Shut up and let me finish," she said with a hint of annoyance.

"Oh, I remember the last time you told me that," he grinned. "You were corkscrewing over—"

"House! I was wondering if you wanted some of Wilson's photos." The grin slipped quickly from his face. "I've been meaning to ask you," she added quietly upon seeing his face.

He figured he didn't look so accommodating now. Even though they had unintentionally met in the graveyard yesterday, he didn't want to talk about his _absent_ best friend. He gave her the shortest, non-inviting answer he could think.

"Sure."

She frowned. She reached over and ran a finger over his knuckles softly. He didn't find it so comforting.

"Are you done, honey?" she asked Rachel. "Come on. Why don't you go to the living room and finish your drawing?"

Rachel nodded dutifully and climbed off her chair. She padded to the living room with a last look back at the adults at the table. Cuddy moved her chair closer to House's. She smiled albeit woefully.

"Do you remember the time I had to bail Wilson out of jail for walking around in public with no pants?"

"I was a bit preoccupied with his dead girlfriend and Kutner following me around during that time. I don't think that counts as a happy memory."

"What about the time we all went to Sherry's and he started flirting with that brunette waitress in front of Sam? I remember you egged him on and got her royally pissed off."

He smiled this time.

"She tried yelling at me outside while trying to support a drunk Wilson. She was even more pissed at me when I yelled out that she wouldn't be getting some due to her ex-husband-boyfriend's small problem with alcohol mixed with performance."

"You were awful!" she told him, laughing. "I slapped you for that."

He moved his hand, grasping hers now.

"He was an idiot for thinking it would work with that harpy."

"He believed that they would work this time," she replied, tightening her hold for a moment.

"Wilson wanted to believe the best in life and people. He never did. That was your M.O."

"I'm not naïve. You make it sound like my head's in the clouds." She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs.

"Not in the clouds, but since you still employ me, maybe brain-damaged from the weed you smoked in college."

"I didn't smoke—"

"After the hoedown, you took a drag off of Dennis Cook's bud," he accused her. "You coughed it all up and threw it back at him. Such a pathetic introduction into the world of recreational drugs."

"Just the once then! I hated the way it tasted. I saw no appeal in it." She tried to muster all the self-righteous she could put into the words.

"I would have taught you if I hadn't been kicked out."

"No thanks. I hated how you told me that you had been kicked out as we danced…" She sighed, faltering for a second, "when I had first started dating Lucas."

He scowled at the other man's name but let her continue. He had a feeling she had wanted to tell him her version of the events that transpired for a while.

"You were acting—decent—and like the man I knew all those years ago… before your leg. I was so fucking confused that night. I hadn't wanted to go back to my room but I had to get away from you."

"Yeah, it was embarrassing being left by a gorgeous 80s flash dancer, all alone on the floor. Wilson had tried to cheer me up with a couple of hematologists but they were sorely lacking in the 'back' department. Nothing on you."

Laughing lightly, she included, "Didn't you drug him the next day?"

"I did. He was going to commit career-suicide. I couldn't let him martyr himself for an idiotic cause. He was the doctor equivalent of a jihadist. Coffee?"

"Please," she said.

He got unsteadily to his feet. His right foot had fallen asleep, making him more lop-sided than usual. He cleared the table, leaving the bowls in the sink. He would get to them after she left, hopefully hours in the future. Night had fallen fully and the rain had lightened but had not given up. He saw a flash of lightening and heard the rumble of thunder a few seconds later. He set up the coffee-maker to make a full pot.

He limped back towards her, watching her eyes drifting to his leg.

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy," he cracked. In a softer voice he said, "My foot fell asleep. I'm really okay."

"Let's move to the couch then."

She got up, taking his hand again and walking with him. They stopped in the doorway. Rachel was stretched out on the couch, sound asleep. House cringed at her and hoped that she wouldn't drool over his sofa. He felt his hand tugged to the left.

"As long as we keep your bedroom door open, we can stay in there and leave her undisturbed."

She was somewhat ahead of him as he stiffly walked into his room. He felt the scene surreal. He hadn't thought he would get her back here this night, however he knew nothing would happen with her daughter sleeping and his door open.

"Sit or lay down. I'll massage your leg for you—if you want."

"I'd appreciate it," he gruffly replied.

Cuddy stepped directly in front of him, one hand on his chest and the other caressing his right cheek. A reluctant smile emerged on his face. She lightly patted his cheek and lowered the other hand on his chest.

"Take off your jeans," she quietly commanded, her voice smooth and silky.

His eyebrows rose. "I don't think I heard you corr—"

"To put on your pj bottoms, jerk," she smirked playfully. "I'm not having sex with you while Rachel is sleeping on your couch. Get comfortable."

"Damn." He looked down and said, "Sorry, buddy, not getting lucky tonight."

Cuddy smacked his chest and sniggered. He hesitated, hands on his button and fly, before he unbuttoned his jeans. He balanced himself against the corner of the bed and shrugged them off. He didn't turn towards Cuddy but grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms out of his drawer. He pulled them quickly, efficiently hiding the mottled and ugly scar that seemed to be less of an issue as of late. He turned and saw she had made herself comfortable on her side of the bed, feet clad only in socks and her legs tucked under her. She leaned against one of his pillows and headboard. He gingerly slid into bed on top of the comforter with her. It felt good to stretch out on his back. He brought his hands above his head and rested his head in his hands. Cuddy moved and knelt at his side, hands already reaching towards his thigh. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"You will tell me if I hurt you?" she tentatively asked.

"The wince and scream of pain should alert you, too."

He didn't need to see the eye roll to know she had done it. Her hands started to tenderly knead the muscle around the scar. House was tempted to let out a fake shout and scare her, but he didn't want to push his luck. His leg tensed as she hit a knot. She stopped.

"Go on," he sighed. "It's just a little sore there."

She began again and worked her way over his entire thigh. It felt wonderful. The muscle loosened and relaxed. The warmth of her hands lulled him into a peace he hadn't felt for a while. His mind quieted and let him rest for once. No thoughts of Wilson, of his insecurities, of the woman next to him, of his fellows and possible future patients, nothing.

The bittersweet smell of coffee entered the room and he heard her whisper, "I'll be back," before feeling the bed dip. Slipping an eye open, he saw he was alone. He stretched more, feeling his shoulders and back crack and pop. He turned lazily over on his stomach and waited for Cuddy to return.

Cuddy walked in with two mugs of coffee. She set one on his side of the bed on the night stand and held the other carefully as she slid back onto the bed. She took a sip once she was comfortable and smiled down at him. Her smile faltered with the fourth sip.

"You scared the hell out of me."

"How? When? There's a lot of times where I frightened you."

He turned onto his side, facing her. He didn't know what she was talking about when there were several instances her words could have applied to.

"When I first broke this off," she stated. "I had forgotten how you looked high." She laughed. "I was stupid to think you'd be able to be there for me when you were barely holding onto yourself."

"I agree," he muffled. She crossly looked at him.

"When you opened the door and I saw how glassy your eyes were, pupils dilated, and you smiling like you had no cares in the world… at that moment you didn't. You didn't care about anything or anyone."

"That's not true."

"It was how I saw it."

House didn't interrupt again.

"Immediately, I was… terrified. What if you couldn't recover again? What if you had finally lost your mind? I—I couldn't cope with even the thoughts of that. I didn't want to watch you destroy yourself. All my hope of seeing you as a _changed_ man," she dragged the words out scornfully, "were dashed. Your words of _people__don__'__t__change_ rang fucking true that night."

House sat up. He couldn't passively lie by her side anymore. Angry tears had sprung in Cuddy's silver eyes. Her face had paled and her whole demeanor had turned cold towards him. He scooted over and wrapped an arm around her. She sniffled and stiffly sat.

"I can't say that I would change that night because I know that's not true. I would have done the same thing—every time."

"I know," she said miserably. "And I would have still walked away. What a pair we are."

He got a weak chuckle from her. Her posture loosened and she lent her head on his shoulder, snuggling more into his side. He pressed a kissed to her forehead.

"Even with everything that's happened," he began, voice rough, "that night, Wilson, Mayfair redux, the night you were at my hotel room… I still choose you. As long as you put up with me, I'll always choose you."

She didn't move. From his perspective, she was staring silently at the foot of the bed. He couldn't tell what she was thinking. He leaned his head toward hers, resting it lightly against her head and inhaling the smell of her hair. His arm tightened his grip. He heard her sigh.

"You have to learn to trust me again, Cuddy," he faintly spoke. "You've always trusted me implicitly at the hospital… Not so much with our personal lives."

She turned under his arm, kneeling next to him now and looking directly into his blue eyes. He watched as she searched his face and locked eyes with him.

"I asked you if you and I could work. You never gave me a straight answer."

"Wise in my opinion," he responded. He shut his mouth quickly under her withering expression.

"Tell me now."

A minute passed in stillness. Then two.

Ten minutes later he was alone in the apartment, staring at Cuddy's half empty coffee cup on the nightstand by what once was her side of the bed.


	14. Ch 13 Red Hot

**AN: A ton of thanks to the lovely Akemi1582 for beta'ing this for me! Happy New Year to all you, too. Hope it's a good one! Over the holidays I did post a one-shot "_At First Glance_" hence the lateness of this chapter. If you like college!H&C, you might like it. Shameless promotion, forgive me… As always, enjoy! **

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><p>"<em><strong>Just when things are getting complicated<strong>_

_**In the eye of the storm…  
>She flicks a red hot revelation<br>Off the tip of her tongue..." **_

_**"The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala" by the Arctic Monkeys**_

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><p>The fifteenth annual charity fundraiser was held at the Intercontinental Hotel in Princeton. The building reeked of money, new and old, but not in the gaudy, overly trying way. Someone who knew that "<em>less-was-more<em>" and clean lines were better than chaotic clutter designed it. Soft velvet settees were placed strategically in the lobby along its main wall. A large chandelier was hung in the middle of the ceiling, soft golden light beaming down through the hundreds of crystals adorned on it. Bellhops and busboys were running here and there with baggage or trays of drinks. Most of the women wore extravagant evening gowns and high heels; their make up applied to perfection. Men were wearing tuxes or solid colored suits, one or two of the more daring wearing top hats and tails. They all seemed to be floating over to the left were the entrance to the ballroom was located. In front of the entrance a large placard was placed announcing Princeton-Plainsboro's Fifteenth Annual Charity Gala. Four ushers were placed at the door checking reservations and guiding the incoming guests to their correct table.

House felt like he was being strangled in the monkey suit, as he referred to the tux in his head. He felt like a damned dandy with the flower in his first buttonhole. He wore a black tux with an immaculately pressed white collared shirt, black bow tie, and waistcoat. The cane he used was black with a silver wolf's head as an ornament. It was a boost to his self-confidence as he saw several of the women eye him with apparent appreciation. He ignored them, his mood too foul to even contemplate their own mild attractiveness.

He was on a mission.

Even though Cuddy had invited him that Sunday night at the horribly ended dinner, she had avoided him the whole week at the hospital. Unfortunately, Chase had brought in an excellent case that _enthralled_ him and took his mind off of the hiding brunette. He had tried to randomly corner her when he had solved the case Wednesday night. She had most likely heard the steady thump of his cane before she slipped into an elevator, the doors closing before House could open his mouth to call out to her. He never found her the rest of the week as his fellows badgered him for a new case and distracted him endlessly. He bullied Thirteen into admitting Cuddy had given them a week free of clinic duty if they kept him away from her office. The betrayal of his fellows working for _the Man_ was going to be met with severe consequences… but it would wait for now.

How did she expect him to answer her question honestly? Honestly, he didn't know if they would work. They proved once that what they had was volatile and fragile. He couldn't answer her. He hadn't; he had just sat there, staring at the end of the bed and watching her leave out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't say, "Yes." _Yes_ implied forever which was an empty concept. There was no such thing. Especially for people like themselves. There was only now, until one of them died, got tired of their own bullshit, or found someone else. He had thought all week of what he was going to tell her, what he had wanted to tell her before this blasted event. He needed her to understand that he would never give her a clear answer. But her cowardice or pride refused to allow her to see him. She might have been hurt from his silence but it was truer than any words he could have uttered.

Well, Gregory House cleaned up well in a tux and he knew how to make a scene. He would coerce her into speaking with him here or suffer an embarrassing scene in front of the hundreds of donors in the room. Her love of the hospital and her fear for her reputation would make her listen. She would sacrifice her pride to avoid scandal. He stepped by the nearest usher and gave his name.

"Table 32, sir. Just over there by the bar," the usher told him, waving vaguely to the corner of the room.

The light was dim there except for over the bar itself. He found his table easily, farthest from the richest donors and, of course, Cuddy. Foreman, Chase, and Thirteen were sitting down and glanced at him wearily as he took his seat.

"You," he nodded to Chase, "go get me a drink. Surprise me."

"Hello to you, too," Thirteen said. "I thought you weren't supposed to drink." She looked stunning in a red, halter dress. He pointedly didn't compliment her as his eyes drifted over her form.

"I'm not, but you see, you're not my mother. There would be serious oedipal issues if you were," he sneered at her.

Chase looked between the two and muttered, "I'll be back." He stood up and made his way to the bar.

"Drinking isn't going to get Cuddy to talk to you," Foreman said matter-of-factly. The man had arrogance wafting off of him.

"Thirteen isn't going to sleep with you for wearing that ugly tie she likes, either."

Foreman rolled his eyes and leaned forward onto the table.

"She's just as miserable as you are, House. Stop deflecting and let us help you tonight."

"Just like you helped her all week," House snarled. "You guys aren't going to see a case for weeks! I'll have you working in geriatrics cleaning shit off the beds, washing the patients, grunt work for traitors and turncoats!"

Thirteen raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "You don't think you're overreacting?"

House exhaled angrily.

"If I am, it's Cuddy's fault… And all of yours for helping her."

Foreman's expression never changed at his outburst. It irritated House to no end. Thirteen tried not to look contrite but failed. Chase came back with drinks in hand in time to see him slouch further in his chair. He accepted his drink with ill grace and spoke before bringing the glass to his lips.

"What did you get me at the bar?"

"A Manhattan."

House nodded, took another sip of his drink, and scanned the room for the woman avoiding him. Every person whom his eyes fell on was older than him, white hair stark against fake tans or sallow skin. Garish pearls or costume jewelry shone bright from the overhead lights.

Blue eyes caught the sight of silver ones. And there she was.

His fellows knew the instance he had spotted the Dean. He sat up straight and leaned forward in his seat, his grip tightening on his glass. Cuddy was speaking with an older donor who kept trying to slip his arm around her waist. She wore a dark emerald green dress, sleeveless and sleek. It hugged every delicious curve and generously enhanced her charms. House felt and heard himself swallow.

"Dinner should be served in ten more minutes," a waiter stepped in front of him, obscuring his view.

"Got it," he snapped and turned away from the beautiful vision.

He threw the dirtiest look he could at the neurologist who was the first person to meet his eyes. The other man smirked. House looked over his shoulder and saw that Cuddy had moved out of sight. He turned the other way and couldn't find her among the throng. A hearty gulp of his strong, smooth drink calmed his ire for a moment but he was still annoyed. The bourbon and vermouth hadn't started to increase his courage yet.

"Did you ever think that by helping Cuddy, we were actually helping you this week?"

He stared at his cat-eyed fellow in disbelief. What utter shit was she trying to sell him?

"Think about it," she continued. "You needed to cool down and think about whatever you two fought about."

"You _were_ more of a bastard this whole week," Chase piped up, sipping a clear, very carbonated drink. House guessed it was a gin and tonic.

"So you two were looking out for me?" He questioned.

Thirteen and Chase smiled at each other as if saying '_he finally understands_' before grinning at him.

"What else?" Thirteen replied in a confident smile aimed to win him over.

"Bullshit."

House scowled at them both and saw Foreman laughing. Dinner was served at the time the waiter had indicated. A dozen of them had flown out of side doors laded with plates up their arms and working from the front of the room to the back. They were efficient, he had to give them that.

His team ate and chatted in amiable tones, throwing him glances from time to time. He dug into his roast beef with all the relish of a starving man. After the stress of the week, he was going to at the very least enjoy highly overpriced food and free libations. He couldn't remember when was the last time he had a full meal. With no one to bug during lunch, he was at a loss on what to do. He forced his mind to not think of past lunches. He listened attentively to the gossip at the table. Taub had not attended due to a court proceeding. No one elaborated. Thirteen was explaining why she was "playing the field" as Chase proudly announced he was taken and as content as he could be given the end of his playboy days. House had immediately texted Foreman under the table and bet him 100 dollars it would only last three weeks. The neurologist accepted. A talk with Chase was in order then before Foreman could get to him. All throughout the dinner, he sipped on his smooth drink, silently glad that Chase had good taste.

His glass was empty now.

House suddenly couldn't hear the steady hum of voices all around him. The ice in his glass had turned the remaining liquor from its dark caramel color into a light golden sheen at the bottom of the glass. He wanted another. The bourbon and vermouth mixture was heavenly. He could feel the alcohol's loving tendrils wrap around his mind and relax him, making him feel more confident than he had an hour ago. He debated on getting a second glass. If he was going to confront Cuddy tonight, he was going to be completely honest with her. The liquid courage would help, but it would make him unpredictable. A misconstrued joke would be taken as a jab and his sharp tongue would lead to him losing her. And if she smelled the alcohol on his breath… No, he was a coward but tired enough of being one that he would not use the drink as a shield. He went for the water.

Dinner had been an hour-long affair. Waiters and busboys cleaned the tables free of all plates and glasses except for the requisite coffee cup and desert plate. Some of the donors, no doubt influenced by the open bar, were leading their dates to the dance floor and swaying drunkenly in the dim light. The first song ended and another began. No green dress appeared in his line of vision.

"Isn't it mandatory for the Dean to dance?" He growled petulantly, interrupting his fellows' conversation.

"She's dancing in the middle with the very rich donor from California," Chase nodded his head to where a dais was erected and where the DJ was set up. Cuddy danced with a man who was the same height as her. He held her close and held one of her hands in his. Her other hand was resting on his shoulder. She was giving the guy her "_please-write-me-a-check-now_" face. The idiot didn't know she was faking the sincerity or flattery she was imposing onto him. The way she was smiling led him to believe it was the flattery.

The guy was in a plain suit, expensive-looking but the standard. He was a nonentity and easily forgotten in House's mind.

House watched Cuddy stealthily. When it looked like she had secured her goal, the way she titled her head further from his, he got to his feet. He had waited for her to finish her begging so she would be more amendable to him. Money did put her in a good mood. He ignored the twinge of pain that lanced through his leg and up his back. He weaved his way through the crowd, dodging dancers and other doctors. He made sure to stay out of Cuddy's sight. Taking a circular route he appeared behind her and gently tapped her shoulder. The donor gave him a disgruntled look.

"May I cut in?"

She stiffened at the sound of his voice before she turned to face him. Her silver eyes had been outlined perfectly by thin black eyeliner. It made her eyes seem sharper and fiercer. She wore a light sheen lip gloss that plumbed up her bottom lip so invitingly.

"If you will excuse me, Kyle?"

"Of course," the man contradicted his real wish. She slipped out of his grip and faced the man behind her.

House held out his hand and took several steps away from the jealous male. The poor sap had no clue that Cuddy would never give him the time of day in a normal situation. His money was the only thing Cuddy would want to see more.

When he couldn't feel the guy's eyes on him any longer, he wrapped his arms around her and stepped flush to her body. She gasped and tried to hide it by wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

He was surprised when she laid her temple against his cheek and felt her body relax against him. It wasn't in comfort or familiarity he knew; it was resignation.

"You've been avoiding me," he spoke directly into her ear.

"I know," she sighed. "I had a good reason."

"Which was?"

"I was hoping you'd give me more time to think of one."

He couldn't help but laugh and let it roll out of him in chuckles. With a jolt he realized he hadn't laughed in a while. Only one person had been able to break his stony exterior and let him freely laugh. The resignation left her posture and she stood straighter and leaned her head against his, her hot breath ghosting on his neck.

"I thought you would answer me right away," she spoke quietly. There was no need for it. The music was loud and covered all conversation between couples on the floor. The others around him were entwined with each other and paid them no attention.

"I can't," he tersely began. "Because I don't know. Just like you don't know. We can only try and not expect anything. Easiest really," he added as an afterthought.

For a fearful moment he thought Cuddy was going to pull away from him. His voice had been light and not that serious though his words were the honest truth. He couldn't give her a straight answer. It was against his nature. He tightened his grip on her waist, ensuring she wouldn't be able to step away from him.

They turned, their feet syncing and stepping in time to the slow, soulful beat that rang out from the speakers. He caught several of the staff looking over at them and hurriedly looking away. There would be gossip tomorrow at Princeton-Plainsboro. Everyone knew of their break up and the fiery backlash of his debauchery. Everyone suspected he had a hand in "his" death. Or was connected directly in some warped way as usual. He had never caught anyone speaking about that night but he knew it from the way they acted around him and the way their eyes would throw suspicion at him. The way they guiltily turned away meant that they seriously doubted the sense of their Dean again. He stole a glance at her. She wasn't exactly smiling, but she wasn't frowning either. Her eyes wandered over the people who were behind him, apparently staring. Her arms had snaked around his neck. She looked right in his arms.

"You owe me a date tomorrow," he said nonchalantly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her look up. She was puzzled by the abrupt change in the conversation.

"I do. The race is at six tomorrow. You should… bring an overnight bag."

He cricked his neck looking down so fast. She was blushing and again looking over his shoulder. Her eyes flickered up to his and she smiled more warmly than he had ever seen in months. When he next spoke, he made sure to brush his lips against her ear.

"What are you planning for after the race, Ms. Cuddy? I don't put out on the first date."

"I can only promise you that I'll make you breakfast," she told him huskily, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "And you would _so_ put out in the first ten minutes," she scoffed.

Feeling himself react to her words and imagery, he stopped swaying with her and stepped back. She looked at him quizzically.

"You have successfully rendered my dancing useless for a good five to ten minutes," House grunted.

She raised an eyebrow and had a satisfied glow about herself. She placed a hand on her hip.

"Go sit down. I need to go get more money out of these people before the night's over," she purred to him.

He smiled, gave her a short mocking bow, and walked to where his team was sitting. They studied him as he got closer. All three were beaming. He threw himself into the chair he had vacated earlier and reached for his half-drunk water.

"So… what kind of court proceeding did Taub have to go to?"

The Team spilled everything they knew to their boss in the hope of forgiveness and redemption.

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><p>House didn't know why he lingered. He and Wilson would always stay at the end of the functions, harassing the cleaning staff and taking advantage of the last drinks given to them by a sympathetic bartender. They played poker, smoked, drank and went home when security threw them out. He sat on a stool at the bar, back to it and elbows resting on the counter. A sick wave of nostalgia washed over him. He had a cup of coffee resting by his left elbow that was half drunk. A janitor was sweeping up crumbs with a large broom. Busboys were removing the left over plates, table clothes, and centerpieces. Sadness fell over him, tangible and suffocating.<p>

He missed Wilson.

He missed the annoying advice and lame jokes. He missed the boyish grin and small, brown eyes.

Nolan would have been proud to see him obsessing on his state of being. He was lonely. He was depressed and confused and angry. Cuddy did make him feel better but she wasn't always there and he would never expect her to be. Rachel was still her first priority and he understood that with perfect clarity.

After three months, he thought the pain of losing someone would lessen. Time did not heal all wounds. Whoever thought of that phrase was a moron. Ignoring the feeling of utter despair was what was really happening. The gaping chasm in his chest was just boarded up. Thinking of certain events and memories would shake those boards lose, but they held. He ignored those past memories as best as he could until, for some reason, it became unbearable watching total strangers clean. He was being ridiculous. He harshly swallowed and realized he was to the point of tears. His fists clenched. '_Get a grip_!' he told himself. He was appalled he was so off-balance. He reached for his cane when a soft voice met his ears.

"You okay?"

He stood hunched over it and coughed, clearing his throat as best as he could. He felt her hand rub his back as she stepped next to him.

"I'm fine," he repeated the world's most famous lie.

"You're such a liar," she said, taking no offence and stepping into his personal space. She hugged him around the waist. Anger rose up in him. He wanted to shove her away, rage at her that she shared the blame, curse her for starting all this trouble...

He didn't though. It was an irrational impulse to make himself feel better. It was that primal need to threaten and enjoy the weakness and hurt in another; to take vicious satisfaction that someone hurt more than he did. As calmly as he could, he held her, head lowered to hers and trying to take comfort in the gesture.

"Tell me what's wrong," she whispered in his ear.

"Nothing," he gruffly said. "It's... nothing."

Her warmth was now welcoming and relaxed him. All thoughts of his best friend had been pushed to the back of his mind. Would the man have wanted him happy? Hadn't he bitched, badgered, and bothered him about his affection for the woman in front of him? His chest ached again at the thought of what his best friend would have thought of seeing his two other friends together again, embracing in a near-empty ballroom. He had always wanted House happy or, at least, content. Though he rarely showed it, he had wanted Wilson happy, too. He wanted the best for his friend.

And Wilson had died after seeing him at his worst.

"Let's get you home then," Cuddy interrupted his private diatribe. "I'll drive you."

He nodded, privately thankful she was there. He felt so sullen. It wasn't fair. The universe should have had order to it. Drug addicted bastards were supposed to die in horrible wrecks. Handsome, good oncologists were supposed to live to the ripe old age of 92, surrounded by ex-wives, children, and grandchildren. Lovely, intelligent women with power and brilliant careers were supposed to be happy and revel in their success.

He sardonically laughed at such a world. He was the worst type of closet romantic: a hopeful one.

With a grateful small smile to Cuddy, he let her lead him out of the empty room and into her car.

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><p>She had followed him inside. Cuddy had not said a word in the car as she drove him home and he had been grateful. Once inside his sanctuary, she asked him what was wrong again and he refused to tell her.<p>

"Leave it," he rounded on her as he limped to his room. It was one in the morning and all he wanted to do was pass out in bed and wake up, hopefully after forgetting the last hour of this night. It had been mortifying to almost come to tears at the gala. The telltale _click click_ of heels followed him. Lies, of various degrees of moroseness and morbidity, filtered through his mind. Each was more fantastical than the other so the chance of Cuddy believing the validity of even one of the lies was zip to none. Shaking her off seemed the more appropriate approach.

"I know you were thinking of Wilson," she snapped. "You can stop the machismo act."

He stopped at the threshold of his room and blocked her from going in.

"Why did it take a whole week, Cuddy, for you to speak with me? Did you not want to face me that bad?"

"You're an idiot," she said calmly. "You would have ignored me and hid in the MRI room if I hadn't answered one of your pertinent questions, too."

"Probably. I would have only taken three days to get back to normal. You took a _whole_ work week," he sneered.

"Because I was hurt you didn't answer me! You're not the only one who needs time alone, House. Please, was it—Wilson, tonight?"

"Fine. It was. Now you can leave."

"House," she despairingly sighed.

The knot in his throat appeared again and he froze, his arms holding onto the doorframe as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling over the edge of despair. Was it the alcohol that had his emotions running wild? Was his body so use to sobriety now that a glass of the finest hard liquor left him feeling sorrowful? His heart thudded in chest, reminding him to breathe. He jerkily inhaled. His muscles flinched when her hand met his back again, rubbing it in circular, soothing motions.

"It's okay," she whispered. "You don't have to say anything."

"Con—" he coughed to hide the stutter "Contradicting yourself now?"

He felt the heat rush to his face. His eyes felt heavy and water-logged. The bed in front of him had never looked so inviting. Sleep had never seemed like such luxury. _Vicodin_, a traitorous voice in his head said, _would have dulled all the pain_. A warm body pressed against his from behind, softness meeting the hard planes of his back. Arms wrapped around his stomach and chest. He felt the barest hint of lips pressed gently between his shoulder blades. All thoughts of Vicodin were banished from his mind.

"You'll feel better out of this suit," Cuddy unexpectedly said.

"Is that a promise?" he smarmily replied.

"If you help me with the zip to my dress."

This time he did turn in her arms. It killed him to say the next words.

"We—You don't have to—I mean, I'm not expecting anything." What a _dunce, _he thought.

The smile that spread across her face was worth the embarrassing cacophony his words had been.

"What a gentleman… Now where's Greg House and what have you done with him?"

"Oh, shut up."

The banter had lessened the pain in his chest. It was a relief he had not thrown out the woman before him in anger. He had been tempted to curse, ridicule, and torment her until she left the apartment. It was selfish using her as a distraction but he justified it with her offering to stay. There was no reason for him to look the gift horse in the mouth. Not this time.

He hobbled unsteadily into the room. He had already thrown the wolf's head cane into the closet in his living room. The jacket was the first item of clothing off. He heard a pair of heels being unceremoniously placed on the floor by her side of the bed.

"Unzip me?"

Her hair was over her right shoulder as her back faced him. With sure fingers, he found the small silver zip and pulled down gingerly, making sure not to snag her skin. There was no reveal of lace on her back and only a small sliver of it that covered her bottom.

"No bra?" he drawled.

"Couldn't with this dress. The bust of it has enough support though."

"I noticed."

Cuddy laughed huskily before sliding the garment down to the floor and picking it up to lay it folded in half on his dresser. His eyes were glued on the sleek expanse of olive skin bare for his viewing. A green barely-there thong was all that was left on her, show casing her bottom in perfection. She turned towards him and he could finally see her breasts and the flat planes of her stomach.

House felt like he was going to sway with dizziness as the blood rushed down to his cock. Cuddy was so _fucking_ _gorgeous_. She could have had any prize male from the population worshiping at her feet. But she stood nearly naked in front of a disgruntled cripple. To focus on something other than his own self-castigation, he willed his fingers to deftly unbutton his stiff white shirt. When he tried to part the shirt, he realized he still had the bowtie on. He yanked it free from its knot and heard a suppressed giggle for his troubles. With the collared shirt off, he pulled his undershirt over his head and began to unzip his trousers. He froze for a moment. There was no way he would have the balance to take his trousers off with dignity after the Manhattan and with a massive hard-on. He kicked his shoes off to buy himself time. Cuddy took the decision away from him by walking to her side of the bed and slipping under the covers. She pretended to get comfortable, ignoring the way he quickly sat down and pulled trousers and underpants down his legs in one swift motion.

He took a deep breath, calming the boiling blood in his veins. For the third time that night, she ran her hands over his back, kneading lightly and comforting him effortlessly. He scooted towards the headboard and turned to face her. How could any prostitute be even considered a substitute for this beauty? Her breasts were full with dark hard-tipped nipples begging to be caressed. Her skin shone clear and tanner in his bedroom's lamplight. Her long legs were tucked under her as she leaned towards him. His eyes flickered down toward her mound, neatly groomed between her thighs.

His patience snapped.

His mouth covered hers a second later, teeth accidently gnashing together and tongues fighting for dominance. He couldn't get deep enough in her mouth. She was so hot, so wet that he knew other parts of her would be exactly the same. She mewled in his mouth, leaning backward to lay on one of his pillows. He followed her down, one hand behind her head, the other reaching for breasts. She gasped as he tugged on a turgid nipple. He pulled away from her mouth to kiss her cheek, her jaw, the soft portion of skin behind her ear, and down her neck, sloppily kissing her skin and teasing her with the barest hint of teeth. The hand that held the back of her head moved with him, and positioned itself under her shoulder. He gave her a love bite on the juncture where her neck turned into her shoulder. She cried out and ran her nails over his back. He hissed as he felt the scratches.

He kissed his way from her neck down her sternum to her breasts. House wrapped his lips around her left nipple, suckling her breast and gently scrapping it with his teeth. He felt one her hands grip his hair before running her nails over his scalp. He growled in pleasure and continued teasing her, moving to her right breast and giving it the same treatment. Her cries and whimpers were going to undo him. His erection was pressed into the mattress and he ground his hips against it with her every vocalization. Both their bodies were starting to sweat. As he enjoyed her breasts, he moved his left hand down her belly, fingers whispering against her skin, and through the small curls at the apex of her thighs. He softly touched and teased the outer skin before he slipped his hand down to cup her, fingers parting her labia and finding her extremely wet. His name was breathed above him.

He stopped his suckling and moved back towards her face. He kissed her lips, coaxing her to open for him. Her lips parted as she parted her thighs wider for his exploration. His middle finger delicately tapped on her clit, finding it hard and engorged already. She exhaled sharply. Entranced, he watched her expressions as he rubbed her clit, first only with his middle finger and then with his index joining. He moved both fingers down to the entrance of her vagina, gathering more of her natural lubrication and spreading it all over her clit and labia.

"Ah!" he groaned as he felt her hand close around his cock. He hadn't noticed her hands wandering, one holding onto the base of him and the other gripping his shoulder.

"Stop teasing me, House," she moaned. He would mentally store that look of complete lust on her face for decades to come he decided. He silenced her with his mouth, moving over her completely, his chest pressed down on hers, belly to belly. He felt the head of his cock meet her hot, wet core and shuddered in arousal. Without preamble, he slid into her, tight heat making him lurch forward sharply.

The urge to come came upon him suddenly and he stiffened, praying to nonexistent gods that he would last. He moved his forehead against hers and stared determinedly at the pillow inches from his face. Both her arms were wrapped around him, one letting her nails glide against the soft skin of his lower back, the other cradling his nape.

"Give me a minute," he rasped into her ear. He felt her cheek rub against his with her nod.

Sex with Cuddy was unbelievable. No wonder he had gone off the bend when she broke up with him; his thoughts were jumbled. Everything from her scent to her taste to her voice captivated him and was beyond sexy. She felt like she was made for him and his pleasure. If he kept his head straight, no other man would know her this way. He wanted to do nothing but spend days in this bed, fucking and making love to the woman under him. He knew she would enjoy both, but her _responsibility_ would call her home tomorrow morning and destroy whatever illusions he was having at that moment. He felt her shift her hips and press against him. He moaned and answered her with a thrust.

"I thought you forgot about me," she whimpered in his ear, her lips tasting the shell of it.

"I can never forget you," he fiercely said, surprising them both with the declaration. His hips began a steady rhythm with her movements, slowly sliding in and out of her when he felt his control return.

"I missed this so much," she breathlessly whispered to him.

"Me, too."

Her hands had continued to roam his back and ass. His tempo increased so he slipped one arm under her to grip her shoulder for leverage, the other also going under her, but to her ass, gripping it and holding her up towards him. His thrusts quickened and became harder. Cuddy had let him hold her the way he wanted her, arching up to him now and not even trying to hold back her cries. House heard his name called out in his ear, heard her yell '_oh fuck! Right there_!' and mutter nonsense he couldn't comprehend in his state of mind. He ground himself against her with every downward stroke, his pelvic bone pressing on her clit and feeling her tighten around him. Her movements became jerky and stiff and he knew he was about to make her come. His own orgasm was moving down his spine and straight to his cock.

"Come with me, Cuddy," he gasped. "I _need_ to see—feel you come with me."

He was grinding her into his mattress now, hips swiveling and thrusting back and forth, trying to overwhelm her with the myriad sensations. Her hands dug into the upper part of his ass as she finally fell apart, his name shouted from her lips as she stiffened and writhed against him. Her vagina clamped onto his cock and forced him immobile. He came, pushing himself as deep inside her as he could reach, feeling his semen shoot from his cock and into her and washing over him again. He weakly ground against her, panting and feeling her aftershocks all around his half-hard cock. His head rested in the cradle of her shoulder.

They were both sweaty and shaky in their embrace. He gathered the last of his strength to get up, kiss her, and move off of her and out of the bed. She stayed on her back, eyes following him to the bathroom. He returned with a damp cloth. She gasped as he cleaned their secretions from her. He wiped himself off as he limped to the bathroom and tossed the dirty cloth into the sink.

He climbed back onto his side of the bed, bringing the sheets and comforter up around them. Cuddy laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. He wanted to laugh when he recognized she was already asleep.

He would have to tease her about it in the morning. With that last coherent thought, he too drifted off to sleep.


	15. Ch 14 Heat

"_**I'll tie a knot in rainbow's end, organize the breeze,**_

_**Light my candle from the sun.**_

_**I'll give you daylight for a friend.**_

_**I'll do all of these.**_

_**I'll prove that it can be done; I'm so much in love**_

_**Like the ragged boy who races with the wind.**_

_**No man loved like I love you.**_

_**Wouldn't you like to love me, too?**_

_**In the heat of the morning…**_

_**In the shadow of a doorway… **_

_**And I'll tell you I love you**_

_**In the heat of the morning."**_

_**- In the Heat of the Morning by the Last Shadow Puppets (written by David Bowie) **_

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><p>It was almost too early to be up but House was. The smell of coffee permeated every crevice of the kitchen. Eggs were being scrambled with cream and pepper mixed into the fluffy batter. The sizzle of bacon overpowered the drip of the coffee pot. Four pieces of white bread were sticking out of the toaster on the right of the stove, ready to be sucked down into its metal jaws to be toasted. With whisk in hand, he added the eggs to a large pan and watched as they cooked, occasionally sipping from his coffee cup and moving the eggs around so they wouldn't burn. He stood there, by the stove, lost in thought.<p>

It had been six-thirty when he awoke. His right arm was asleep with the sensation of pins and needles starting to wiggle their way into his muscles. Cuddy had rolled from his embrace and was using his bicep as a pillow. He slowly extricated his arm from under her head. He let out a low hiss as his arm rebelled against the movement and the blood rushing through it unimpeded again.

Cuddy never stirred. She cuddled up to the pillow below her and continued sleeping. The sheets were tucked above her shoulders, mostly hiding her from his view. He rose as gingerly as he could from the bed, grimacing and wincing when he stood on both feet. He had been sore. He stifled the giggle that wanted to escape his throat. They hadn't been _that_ active last night. His leg hurt a little worse than yesterday, but it was not the total agony it could reach.

He limped towards the window on his side and closed the drapes more securely. He did the same to the window on her side, plunging the room into semi-darkness. If it had gotten any brighter, she would have woken up. He put on clean boxer shorts and a tee shirt. Walking out of the room, he was suddenly at a loss on what to do.

"_I can only promise you that I'll make you breakfast…" _

The words floated from his subconscious and into the forefront of his mind. That was easy. And distracting, he thought. His fridge had nothing edible in it: the milk had turned, he had only one egg, the bread could have been used to harvest penicillin, and he had nothing else to complete a full meal. The scene before him had been eerily similar to the start of their relationship. He had only had cereal.

So he had snuck back into his room, gave a longing glance at the woman in his bed, and made himself presentable enough to go to the market a block down from his apartment. Baker Street was quiet and chilly when he had walked out, shrugging his coat on. Fresh air, or as fresh as it could be in New Jersey, entered his lungs. The walk had done him good and he was able to get his groceries and make it home without Cuddy being any the wiser.

The grease from the bacon made a popping sound and brought him out of his thoughts. He turned down the heat and covered the pan. The eggs were done, too. He was thinking of different ways to wake Cuddy when she walked into the kitchen, yawning with her hair wildly askew. She had found one of his pajama tops and an old pair of sweats that seemed three times bigger on her. She had also stolen a pair of his thick, wool socks. He would turn on the heater later if she was still cold.

"Coffee?" he asked.

She nodded, yawning again and stretching her arms above her head. House poured the black liquid into her favorite mug and dressed it as she liked: lots of creamer, one sugar. She had seated herself in her chair, one leg stretched out in front of her, the other on the seat with her arms wrapped around her knee and pressed to her chest. It was a very relaxed pose and one he vividly remembered seeing numerous times. He knew she loved to sit Indian-style or with her feet tucked under her when at her most relaxed. It was a major difference from the strung tight Dean.

He placed the steaming cup in front of her, but before she could reach for it, cupped her chin and made her look up. Her eyebrow rose in question. He leant down and drawled out, "Good Morning," kissing her slowly in greeting. When he withdrew, her eyes were closed shut and her slow exhale was audible to his ears.

Smugness suffused his whole being and he limped to get his own cup of coffee and serve breakfast. When he turned back with two full plates, he caught her gaze. Cuddy was looking smug as well, looking at him with a glint in her eye. They sat comfortably at the table and ate in silence. It wasn't until half way through the meal that they started up a conversation about the night ahead.

He had forgotten about the motor cross. It was something he hadn't done in ages. Since… Wilson died. The ache in his chest twisted but it could not overcome the happiness he felt, the happiness he thought he had lost and not deserved. He felt fingers run down his hand.

"What are you thinking about?" she smiled, her fingers rubbing circles over his knuckles.

"Wilson."

Cuddy hid her shocked reaction well he spied. The taboo of speaking of Wilson had ingrained itself into her psyche these last few months. A twitch of her lip and left eyebrow were the only movements she let through. She looked pleased at the same time.

"He probably would have bought tickets for all three of us. He tried to convince me one time that he hated monster trucks and guy stuff like that. I almost fell for it," he said gruffly.

"You?" she answered disbelievingly. "Seriously?"

"Hey! He was a manipulative _bitch_ when he wanted to be. Another time he almost got me to believe he was on a diet. Wilson had gossip fodder for days."

He watched as Cuddy's smile grew. She got more comfortable in her seat, elbows on the table. Instead of the discomfort that was swallowing him whole whenever he thought of his best friend, he felt relieved as if leeches were sipping poison from a wound. He made Cuddy laugh and eventually happily cry after an hour of reminiscing.

"I miss him, House," she said as she wiped tears from her cheeks. He handed her a napkin and watched as she cleaned her face.

"I knew I could always count on him to help me with whatever I needed."

"Like how you couldn't rely on me."

It was a stated plainly and with absolute truth. Cuddy's eyes looked up and met his. She nodded.

"Wilson was reliable. You… You're a law unto yourself; unbending and unsympathetic to faults. I know you can't help it. I've accepted it and learnt how to deal."

"I've tried—," he began.

"I know you have. I have, too," she interrupted. "But maybe you're right: people don't change. I don't want you to change. Not anymore at least."

"Everybody also lies," he argued.

"So trust is a moot point? It doesn't matter anymore," sighed Cuddy. "I'd like to think we know each other well enough to know we'll hurt each other on occasion, but we're strong enough to get past it."

"As long as _that's_ clear," he sneered.

"Shut up, House."

They cleaned up together and dressed. Cuddy kissed him good-bye, reminding him to be ready by six that night.

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><p>The air was thick with gasoline fumes and fresh beer. Popcorn and pretzel pieces were scattered all over the grass and pavement. Fliers announcing all types of entertainment were strung all over. He walked beside Cuddy as she held a bottle of Stella in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. In his left hand was a bottle of Budweiser, condensation already wetting his palm. Hundreds of people were filing into the stadium. He felt the stirrings of claustrophobia and pushed it down. He didn't know why he felt uneasy. He ignored it and kept his eyes focused on the ramp in front of him.<p>

The bright lights illuminating the field blinded anyone who looked directly at them. They shuffled past other sweating bodies and made their way towards the field. Cuddy had bought prime seats in the middle-front. He could see every turn, every jump, every tight kiss-ass turn where ever he looked. The noise was astronomically loud. Hundreds of thousands of voices were chatting, laughing, and jeering all around him. It was disconcerting.

He sat down quickly once he and Cuddy found their seats.

"You okay?" she yelled in his ear.

"Peachy!" he answered with a forced smile. He hoped it was believable. With the way she nodded happily and turned her gaze back to the starting line, he knew he should receive an award for that performance.

The announcer's reedy voice came on over the COM system and blared out the name of the event along with exclamations to make the crowd rowdier. A gunshot went off, making him flinch and realize he wasn't paying attention. Forty motorcycles suddenly roared to life and sped off, away from the line. He saw his favorite rider in his usual neon green and black clothing and helmet tear up the competition. He could hear Cuddy screaming encouragement and getting into the old competitive spirit.

It made him smile and feel better. He yelled and cussed the other competitors. The jumbo-tron showed each rider up-close and personal. The ache twisting in his chest was forgotten for a half hour. He was ecstatic that the green rider was driving like a bat out of hell; first place looking like it was his.

Until he went to lap the last place rider.

Whether with vindictiveness in mind and heart or plain stupidity, the last place rider swung his bike to the right and clipped the back tire of the first place rider.

House watched as if in slow motion. Each bike flipped and fell sideways. Both riders were thrown from their mounts and tumbled like rag dolls, limps flailing and looking like rubber. Mr. Second Place quickly and expertly steered around the mangled flesh and steel, stealing the lead, but Third Place wasn't as adept. He ran over one of the fallen bikes, crushing one of the rider's legs, no one could tell who's...

The crowd was on its feet, all clamoring to see the wreckage. It seemed only he and Cuddy had stayed obstinately in their seats.

"House," she yelled, one hand on his forearm, the other on his shoulder. "House, answer me!"

His eyes were fixed on the scene. Was the same sudden crunch of metal the last thing James Wilson heard? Were there screaming brakes, exclamations shouting, or was there just silence and a quick thump against the window?

House felt the hairs all over his body stand on end, his flesh cooled too quickly, sweat poured out of him, and nausea washed over him.

"Breathe!" he heard someone call out. But it was as if they were speaking from the end of a long tunnel, echoed and unclear. A band of steal wound around his chest and constricted.

His head whipped back with the force of the hand that slapped him. His mouth opened and he gave a great gasp of surprise, his lungs expanding and destroying the constriction on his chest. They burned harshly as he panted and looked around wild-eyed. Cuddy was standing over him. Several people around them were staring at him, too.

He was drenched; head to toe, in cold sweat. His mouth and throat were dry as he gasped great gulping breaths of the foul air around him. One of the motorcycles had started to smoke as more lights flared to life and emergency medical staff clambered onto the field.

Abruptly standing, his hands shook as they reached for his cane. His thigh felt like it was on fire. The scar gave a horrible twinge of pain as it cramped up on him and he fell back into the seat. Cuddy had scooted away from him at that moment and immediately came into his line of sight after he fell. Her palm cupped his cheek, the warmth of her skin soothing him. Her eyes moved over his face and chest steadily. It took him thirty seconds to realize that she was analyzing him and his medical state.

"We need to get you out of here," she told him.

There way was mostly unimpeded due to the crowd watching the paramedics surround the fallen riders. The announcer's reedy voice was distant now as Cuddy helped him walk down the concrete ramp and stagger out of the stadium. His head ached and his chest still felt tight, getting tighter with each harsh step he took. She had luckily gotten a handicap parking space so they were close to her car already. He could see it ten feet in front of him when he stopped and leaned heavily on her and his cane.

"We're almost there, House," she consolingly said. "Come on, you can make it there."

He nodded, throat and mouth too dry to speak. He hoped he wasn't hurting her. He was really using her as an extra crutch. He was proud she didn't bow under his weight or stagger with him. For as small as her stature, she was tough and resilient. She helped him lean against the car as she opened the door for him and helped him inside. The familiar scent of her soothed him and blocked out the smell of burning oil and cramped humanity. The growl of Cuddy's engine coming to life made him flinch but he relaxed as she pulled out of the parking space and made her way to the main road. He slumped into the seat and kept his eyes focused in front of him.

Every time he had tried to close them, thinking he would get some peace, his traitorous imagination showed him images of Wilson's silver Volvo. The metal was always twisted and destroyed. Glass was twinkling on the black asphalt in the lamplight. He tried to clear the image from his mind. He didn't want to think of Wilson's lifeless body propped up in the driver's seat, blood matted in his hair and seeping down his face. Did he wear a look of shock on his face or was it as calm as it had appeared in the morgue?

"Talk to me," he desperately rasped at Cuddy.

The ride had been silent. Cuddy was speeding safely home, albeit as safely as one could speed. His heart rate had gone down, but he was cold, the sweat making him shiver.

"You had a panic-"

"Not that!" he interrupted.

He saw take a deep breath, obviously wishing for patience with him. Seeing that normal gesture from her made him feel slightly better.

"Okay," she resigned. "What patient did you have this past week? You never updated me on their condition."

Work was safe. It was the one thing they could always fall back on in comfort and irony. He cleared his throat as best as he could as he started from the beginning on his previous case. A water bottle was handed to him and he gratefully took it from her, swilling it back and coughing when it hit his parched throat. He was able to drink half the bottle and continue. Cuddy chastised him at the appropriate parts, laughed with him on some of his team's antics, and sarcastically interjected her own commentary much to his pleasure. Her tongue was very sharp and very much like his own.

The dead, shaky panic came back to him when his apartment building came into view. He didn't want to let go of the peace that had helped him in the car. The engine shuddered off and silence fell. There was a second's hesitation before Cuddy got out of the car and walked to his side. He was able to get out on his own, leg hurting but not so much anymore. He didn't want to walk through the dark green door of his building.

Somehow he made it up the stairs and through his apartment door himself. Cuddy had opened all the doors for him and stood waiting for him in his living room, the lamp by the piano the only light.

"Sit down and let me get you something to drink," she ordered him, the Dean's voice ringing clear in the silence.

"Yes, ma'am," he snarled.

He threw himself onto his leather couch and stretched out. The coolness of the leather was uncomfortable but being able to stretch his leg felt like heaven. Taking a deep breath was a mistake. He needed a shower badly. He smelled like exhaust and reeked of fear and sweat.

He couldn't get the imagined flashes to stop. House knew it was because he was suddenly obsessing, maybe due to the crash, maybe due to the denial of acceptance of Wilson's death. He didn't care nor want to know about any psychoanalyst bullshit. His mind was screwed up enough without a few more labels attached to it.

A glass appeared in front of him and he took it, relieved to see his hand steady. The coolness of the water made him shiver but it was fresh and satisfying. He stiffly sat up and placed it on the coffee table. Cuddy moved around the couch to sit across from him on her knees. It was easier for her to reach up and cup his cheek, her eyes running over his face. He could tell she was checking his pupils and temperature. The doctor in her was coming to the forefront. She opened her mouth, but he interrupted her before she could speak.

"I'm not going to the hospital. I'm fine." _Sort of_, he thought.

"House, you have to talk about what happened." Her voice was soothing and the perfect pitch of comfort. It was sweetly manipulative and scamming.

"I don't have to do anything," he sneered. "I also happen to be an excellent diagnostician and know what happened and that it has passed. No discussion or differential needed."

He tried to haul himself up but awkwardly fell back on the couch. He let a hiss of pain escape through his teeth.

"Oh yes," Cuddy mockingly replied. "I can see the physician has certainly healed himself."

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, my dear," he spat, heaving himself up to his feet with herculean effort and holding onto the couch in case he overbalanced.

"You're being an idiot. You don't want to face the truth that you lost your best friend in a similar way. Maybe not as gruesome as that race, but he died in a car crash. Wilson's gone, House."

Each word was flung at him with razor sharp precision, cutting away at his self-restraint and patience.

"Get out."

He almost laughed at the hurt expression on her face. It was painfully ironic and reassuring in a vindictive way. A stranger would have thought he had slapped her.

"Didn't you hear me or are you having an episode, too?" he snidely said.

"No." Her head was held high as she stood from the couch to place herself in front of him. "I'm not leaving and you're not throwing me out."

"Want to try me?"

"Yes, I do."

He stared down at her fierce, sharp eyes glaring at him. The woman in front of him was confident and unyielding. There was nothing compromising in her stance or demeanor. He wanted to push her out of the apartment and wallow in self-pity and then go out to see if he could find one of his… regular guys. Even the feel of nicotine on his tongue would have been a welcomed relief.

"Wilson would say you were being an asshole right about now."

Her voice cut through his thoughts and brought him back to the situation at hand.

"He would—If he was here. But he's not. He won't ever be."

"It's not your fault," she softly replied. "It was an acci—"

"OF COURSE IT WAS!" He roared. "Maybe not directly, but I damned well caused him to be there, on that exact road, that fucking night! He was only out there because of me!"

His cane smacked right into the wall, clattering to the floor and shattering all their nerves. His breath was coming in deep pants and the hair on his arms stood on end. He recognized that he had one last option available to him.

"I'm taking a shower," he murmured, voice back to indoor level.

Avoidance was always best, he decided. He didn't dare look at her face when he left the room. Shame was an unfamiliar emotion, but it was bearing down on him in tons. He was surprised he didn't physically hurt her, but the loss of his temper was sure to come and bite him in the ass.

The bathroom was too cool and he broke out in goose bumps immediately. He shed his filthy clothes and shoes and left them on the floor where he dropped them. He adjusted the tap to as hot as he could stand it. Steam began to gather on the edges of the mirror. He climbed in, taking care to put hardly any pressure on his still weak leg. The scar on his thigh looked as if it had puckered worse. He took a step forward and immersed himself into the full spray of water coming down. It was a little too hot, but he was determined to stay under it.

In his mind's eye he could see the silver Volvo impacting the larger SUV. He could see Wilson sitting up in the morgue in his funeral garb, looking at him with the same disgust across his face as he left the hotel.

_It should have been you on that slab_, a voice whispered to him.

It should have been. They should have locked him away forever in Mayfield when they had the chance.

_Should've, could've, would've_, the same voice whispered.

He flinched when he heard the door leading to his bedroom open and close swiftly. He could see her blurred form through his clear curtain. He released a sigh and leaned back against the tiles, flinching as the cold seeped through his skin as he watched her undress.

She barely disturbed the curtain as she slid in. In the dim yellow bathroom light her eyes shone a light blue as she caught his gaze.

"Stop sulking," she said quickly. She hurriedly placed a finger over his lips when his jaw dropped to retort. "Shut up and listen."

She removed her finger and moved by him in the small stall to reach for the soap. She placed her hands on his shoulders making him turn his back towards her.

He was more than grateful to her for the faux-hiding situation. He didn't think he could face her while naked. He felt her fingers brushing his back and she spoke again.

"You need to speak with someone—" he tried to interrupt her but she spoke over him "—anyone. It doesn't have to be me."

Her hand stopped momentarily.

"If you have to go back to seeing Nolan, I think that would help you. He's... unbiased."

"I don't want to step foot in Mayfield again."

"Then call him and have him meet you at a Starbucks. Or even at a bar, just call him to talk."

_It made sense_, a traitorous part of his mind argued. Nice and rational of her without an overly emotional reaction. His back stiffened with suspicion. Cuddy had never stepped aside. She had always wanted to be everything in any capacity.

"Why are you pushing me towards Nolan and not harping me yourself?"

A nail scratched him at her next pass down his back.

"Because I'm too close. I'm in love with the asshole in front of me and Wilson was my best friend, too. Too many conflicting influences."

He looked over his shoulder, expression blank as he saw her. He felt a sudden flare of recognition. Twenty years ago he had met this same person. Every word spoken with articulate confidence. He hadn't heard that type of confidence to her voice in years.

"I will... talk to Nolan. I bet he misses his favorite narcissist obsessive compulsive patient." His smirk brought a small smile to her face.

Her hands moved to his shoulders then around his neck, pulling him into an embrace. His arms wrapped around her waist, head down and foreheads touching.

"I'll try to... _confide_," the word was uttered with dubious intent, "in you, too. Keyword: try."

"That's all I ask," she replied. They washed quickly, too tired to take advantage of the hot water and their nakedness. Borrowing his sweats and PJ top again, Cuddy burrowed into his bed first. House threw on only the matching PJ bottoms and slid in next to her. She held him to her for the rest of the night.

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><p><strong><em>AN: Chapter 15 is the last chapter! Go forth and read! Another more detailed note in that chapter…<em>**


	16. Ch 15 Till Spring

**AN: Very, very special thanks to Akemi1582, AdieAngel, and Iane Casey for helping me and giving me their feedback and precious time from real life to read and beta this story. I appreciate it so much! There's nothing like working with fellow writers to get a good story out. Thank you, loves. Also, thank you to every one who has stuck with this story from beginning to end. All your reviews, alerts, favorites, have always made my day and kept me writing. Thank you, dear readers. Now, the last chapter…**

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><p><em><strong>They made it far too easy to believe,<br>that true romance can't be achieved these days…**_

**-"You are the only ones who know" by the Arctic Monkeys**

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><p>House carelessly brushed a snowflake off of his eyelash. The snow had been falling steadily for three days now but he had to come out here.<p>

It was over a year since James Wilson had passed away.

His headstone had a two-inch layer of snow on it, but the face of it gleamed in the weak, white New Jersey sunlight. All the trees in the cemetery were bare with icicles clinging to their branches. The old, ugly caretaker was salting the sidewalks half-heartedly.

It was a beautiful afternoon despite the grimness of the scenery.

"Cuddy should be here in ten minutes."

He placed his leather-clad hands into the warmth of his pockets on his leather jacket. He wore a PPTH baseball cap to shield his head from the elements. The weather was biting and crisp but at least the storms had passed.

"You would like the new guy," House spoke again. "He cares far too much about his patients and wears his pants a half inch too short. Typical idiot."

He shuffled from foot to foot, leaning on his cane more.

"Bellinger cries with them, too, and holds their hands as they die. Don't know where Cuddy finds these guys..." he trailed off, his breath misting in the frigid air.

"Cuddy's good. We haven't killed each other yet, but two weeks ago she almost ripped me a new one. You would have laughed so hard at seeing a patient turn violet purple due to lying about the drugs he was on. Cuddy didn't think it was funny. I won fifty bucks off Chase though," he added.

"Daniel has been... good. Or as well as a schizophrenic can be. He's working and keeping out of trouble. Thought you ought to know..."

"You would have hated your memorial. It was held at Princeton-Plainsboro. Bored me to tears. I was forbidden to speak. Cuddy spoke... and Chase. Sam was semi-composed enough to say a few words. All generic bullshit of course. You would have laughed and snickered with me in the last pew."

Silence fell and minutes passed. He shifted his weight on his cane again, his leg reminding him that the current weather could be lethal to cripples. He heard a car drive up and glanced back to see Cuddy's car pull in next to his. Taking a deep breath, he looked back at the well-kept headstone.

"I miss you," he barely whispered. It was more breath than speech.

He coughed, clearing the sudden emotion that swelled in his throat.

"I fucked up so badly that night. I couldn't give two shits about anything. Not you—not Cuddy—"

His nose started to run and he sniffled loudly.

"That kid—the one who killed you—started volunteering at the hospital," he went off to a safer topic. "Of course in the kiddy cancer ward as if that'll earn him more bonus points. He's... pretty good with them. He avoids me due to the ass kicking I gave him when I found out he was out of jail."

He smirked remembering Marcus's face blanch right before House's fist met his nose. Cuddy had to bail him out after security arrested him and shipped him off with Princeton PD.

He sobered.

"I wonder if you would have ever forgiven me," he quietly said. "I know I wouldn't." He took a glance back and saw Cuddy starting to walk towards him. The hour was getting late, but he needed to say a few things more.

"Yeah, yeah, I think you would have. You've forgiven me for a lot worst like accidently killing your girlfriend. I just... don't know whether this would have been the one time too many. It makes me wonder."

He could hear the crunch of Cuddy's steps now.

"I wanted you to know, and I'll sound like a total pansy saying it," he sneered down, "that you aren't forgotten. And won't be as long as there are happy hours, ducks, and motor cross. You never abandoned me so—"

A treacherous tear escaped his eye. He coughed again and wiped fiercely at it. It would be mortifying to have Cuddy find him like that. He felt Cuddy finally step beside him and take his arm, slightly leaning towards him for warmth.

"You ready to go home?"

He gave one last glance to the marble stone below him. The snow was falling harder now and covering up the letters. In the spring, he silently vowed to come back. The stone would need cleaning. Wilson would have appreciated it.

"Yes," House gruffly replied, taking Cuddy's hand.

**_Finis_**


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